Moments
by Dodger Gilmore
Summary: Collection of oneshots. All generations.
1. Names

**A/N:** This is dedicated to MBP. Because she has insisted that I should do oneshots for a long time, and she gave me this idea. Which came from Molly's chapter, where she was reflecting on her name and wishing she could talk to Fred and James about being named after people and, even more importantly, get them to talk to each other. This also holds a lot of references from other character's chapters in "Things", which you'll see if you've been reading it.

Just for clarification, at this point Teddy is about 25, Victoire 23, Molly, Dominique and Louis 22, Fred 20, Lucy and Roxanne 19, James 18, Albus and Rose 17, Hugo and Lily 15.

_**Names**_

"So, Molly, how does it feel to be another year older? You're catching up to grandma pretty quickly, aren't you?" Fred questioned with an evil smirk.

"Hey!" Victoire protested. "If she's old at 22, what does that make me?"

"Even older," James added, grinning, while patting her on the shoulder. "But don't worry, we like you anyway."

"You do realize that by this you are basically alluding that I'm about ready to be sent to a nursing home," Teddy interjected.

"Well, no," James drew back, looking a bit uncomfortable. "You're a guy, it's not the same thing!" he added feebly.

But Teddy just laughed, ruffling the already messy hair of his by now at least in-law related almost-little brother.

"Should we order then, instead of spending our whole evening deciding who's old and who's not?" Dominique interrupted their bickering, then added in an undertone, "I'm 22 as well guys, you know I'm watching you."

As Madame Rosmerta came up to them to take their orders, Molly looked around the table, smiling to herself. This actually was kind of fun. Her cousins hadn't bothered to let her in on their plans to take her out for her birthday, so she had been quite surprised when they, just an hour ago, had showed up at her and Gary's apartment, reprimanding her for not being dressed already. Having been set on a private night in, the idea took a bit of adjusting. But, really, it was quite nice. Despite all of them chattering at the same time, not even giving her the chance to answer the questions they directed to her. It was pretty entertaining to just listen to them anyway, she thought, though squeezing Gary's hand in hers a little, glad of the presence of someone somewhat sane.

"Firewhiskey all around then, right?" Fred stated, not really asking.

"Um, excuse me, pregnant lady over here!" Teddy pointed out, wrapping his arm protectively around his wife's shoulder. "And just Butterbeer for me too."

"What, you're being sympathetically not-drunk too?" Dominique questioned, raising her eyebrows at him.

"Kind of," Teddy smiled, letting his other hand find Victoire's expanding belly and leaning in for a soft kiss.

"Okay, apart from the nauseating snoggers, everyone else up for a real drink?" Fred asked again, this time with a pretty stern look at his sister when she didn't protest, like he was only just now noticing her presence.

"What? Honestly, Fred, I'm 19. Besides, I never get out without Jim and he's overprotective enough for the both of you. Now Lucy and I got a little girls night out here and I advice _you_ to mind your own business, _brother_," Roxanne finished, with a touch of her mother's determination in her eye that made Fred raise his hands in retreat.

"Fine, Butterbeer for two and Firewhiskey for the rest then. You got that?" he said, turning to Rosmerta, who nodded, looking very amused. "I hope you know you're pretty lucky that I'm in a good mood tonight," he then added seriously, turning to Roxanne, who snorted. "No, really. Dad would not have been pleased to hear about his little Roxy getting poisoned up on alcohol."

"Oh no, don't call her that," Lucy groaned, laying a hand on Roxanne's to keep her from brutally attacking her brother for using the nickname she had detested deeply since the age of six. "Dropping the subject of Roxanne's supposed 'poisoning', why are you in such a good mood? Haven't you been kind of… well, hopelessly in love with your ex-girlfriend and in denial about it?"

A smug grin appeared on Fred's features before he could stop himself. Without giving him time to even begin to reply, Roxanne beat him to it.

"What are you looking so pleased about?" she asked suspiciously. "You've been having fits every time anyone has as much as mentioned your obvious crush on Jenny for years. What did you do? Imperius her into getting back together with you?"

"Now that's not fair," Jerry Wood piped up next to Dominique.

All eyes turned to him. It was extremely rare that the so-called newcomers to this family got the opportunity to even get a word in during these gatherings. They usually spent them just listening in amazement.

"What?" he asked, turning to his fiancée for an explanation of the staring. "I know Jenny a bit. There's no way he would have succeeded in forcing her into anything."

"True," James nodded, smirking at Fred. "But hey, what are you looking so disgustingly happy about then?"

"Well, wouldn't you all like to know," he muttered, still looking mildly offended. "But, since I am in such a spiffingly great mood, I shall forgive you all of your minor insults to my capability and tell you anyway. Even if you don't deserve it," he added with a dark look at Roxanne, who just waved impatiently at him to go on. "Oh, come on, you gotta let me drag it out a little! Have you any idea how long I have been waiting for this?"

But as he drew in breath to continue, he was interrupted by his sister suddenly flinging herself at him, hugging him tightly, while squealing words none of them except Lucy were able to distinguish.

While Roxanne was still busy choking her brother, Lucy translated for the others, grinning broadly herself, "He's back with Jenny! Aren't you, Fred?"

Carefully detaching himself from his sister, he nodded, rubbing at his shoulder, though still looking very pleased with himself.

"Really?" Roxanne asked, almost teary. "It's true then? You've finally seen sense and realized that you're nothing without her?"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly put it as if I'm _nothing_ without her," he replied, frowning, again slightly affronted.

"Don't let her hear you say that," Louis advised with a sly grin at Anne Jordan. "Might be dangerous. Just go with it."

"He's right," Anne chipped in, after smacking her boyfriend lightly in the chest.

Fred turned to Lucy and James instead. James just shrugged, casting a nervous sideways glance at Daisy Longbottom, whose eyebrows were raised, challenging him daringly.

"Well, I sure wouldn't let Tim say something like that," Lucy informed him unhelpfully. "And the other way around, he _still_ gets kind of insulted every time I happen to mention that if I hadn't got him, I would have been okay, as long as I had gotten Professor Longbottom instead. Not sure why he's so sensitive though. It's not like he ever would have gone for me. I mean, he's a _teacher_, and way too obsessed with principality. If he wasn't so extremely hot, I'd kind of hate him for it."

At this, Daisy, who had just received her glass of Firewhiskey and taken her first sip, spat it all back out, right into James's lap.

"_Please_, tell me that you did _not_ just say that about my _dad_?" she spluttered, looking horror-struck.

Lucy's hand immediately flew to her mouth as everyone else broke down in fits of violent laughter at both girls' expressions.

"I'm sorry!" Lucy shrieked from behind her hands that were now covering her face completely. "I didn't remember that you're… well, his _daughter_… and, oh my God! I'm really, really sorry!"

Now wiping her mouth dazedly with her sleeve and taking deep breaths, Daisy nodded slowly. "Just… next time, take a look around the room before you say stuff like that. And if anyone's there named Longbottom, don't say it."

"You fancy _Neville_?" James now interjected, just regaining the ability to form words. "My girlfriend's dad? Our ex-teacher?"

"And she's been fancying him forever too," Roxanne grinned. "Since what, like second year?"

"About that time, yes," Lucy admitted, still looking mortified. "Please don't tell him about it though," she begged, turning to Daisy. "Now if this wasn't embarrassing enough…"

"Won't speak of it again if I can help it," Daisy assured her quickly. "Now, another subject than my dad's hotness, _please_?"

While everyone was still busy chuckling at this, the birthday girl herself spoke up for the first time, taking pity on Daisy, as she was sure that if she didn't, the others wouldn't be quite so respectful of her wishes. "So, James, how's it going being first year out of Hogwarts? I know I missed it horribly."

"Well, yeah, it is kind of weird to know that I'll never go there again," he admitted. "But I've gotta say, it's a real relief never to have to worry about NEWTs again. Last year I barely had time to pee."

"Kind of more information than we needed," Fred pointed out. "True, though."

"I didn't think the last year was all that bad," Roxanne frowned.

"That's because you were too busy skipping around and being sickeningly happy and in _love_," Lucy laughed. "You wouldn't be saying that if you hadn't had my notes to borrow after you'd been daydreaming or toe-flirting with Jim during the actual classes."

"Al doesn't seem to be thinking it's that tough either," James interjected. "His cheery letters make you think they're no match at all for him. And, well, I know he's smart, but come on. NEWTs should be some kind of challenge! It's not like he's Rose!"

"But didn't I hear something about him too being kind of high on love these days?" Teddy asked, giving James a meaningful look. "My guess is that's probably what's making it all so easy."

"What was her name again? Something K, right?" Lucy asked.

"Yeah. Kim Shepherd, I think," answered James. "She's a year under him. Gryffindor too. Muggleborn. She seems pretty fun from what I've seen. She's sure got attitude, and well, in my opinion that's exactly what he needs, seeing as he seriously lacks it. You've all heard about how she just walked right up and snogged him in front of the whole common room, haven't you?"

They all nodded in agreement. That story had been spread wide, despite Albus's attempts to prevent it.

"I think he might be really into her, actually," James mused on. "His whole face got tomato-red each time I teased him about the two of them this summer. You'd think it'd get old after a while, but he just kept getting all embarrassed. Must mean he _really_ fancies her."

"That's too bad," Dominique said, leaning into her fiancée. "Jerry and I were still kind of keeping our hopes up for him and Felicia."

"Yeah. I think she still has a crush on him, even if she's way too stubborn to admit it," Jerry agreed, absentmindedly stroking her once fractured arm that had a few years ago, in a way, brought them back together. He was still always extra gentle in handling that wrist, despite it having been perfectly healed for years.

"That would have been kind of adorable, wouldn't it?" Roxanne smiled. "Two people from our family marrying into the same other one."

"Well, I think there's still some hope for that," said Daisy, giving a mysterious smile that caught everyone's attention.

"What is this gossip and why don't I already know it?" Lucy demanded eagerly.

"Let's just say, I know my brother… He's not exactly discreet about it either. The way he talks about her, constantly – well, it's pretty obvious," Daisy finished.

"You haven't told me this! Because you are talking about my sister, aren't you?" James burst out, his voice slightly higher than it should be.

Daisy nodded, smiling sympathetically, taking his hand, as he went on, "But… but she's just broken up with that jerk Nick! And… and… she's just…"

"While James is having his heart attack, let's get some real information," Roxanne said impatiently. "Do you mean they're together? Secretly maybe?"

Daisy shrugged. "All I know is that he's having a pretty big crush on her. Can't tell you anymore than that. For some reason, Robert doesn't trust me with this kind of information, because he thinks I'll share it with all of you guys. Very unfair, if I may say so myself."

"I don't know," Fred said thoughtfully, "I'm still sticking with my theory of Lily and Lorcan myself."

"But, come on!" groaned James. "She's had one, she can't go through both of them. That's just not… healthy!"

"Really, Fred," Roxanne sighed. "I thought we'd agreed this wasn't going to happen when she hooked up with Lysander. You really need to learn to consider yourself having been wrong."

Fred just gave a knowing smirk, not bothering to protest. At the moment.

"Speaking of Lily," Dominique said, "has anyone found out what that giant falling out between her and Hugo is about yet?"

They shook their heads.

"She doesn't answer any questions about it in her letters," James told them. "Never mentions him either. I think it's pretty bad, actually."

"Sounds that way," Louis muttered, shuddering slightly at the thought.

"I heard from Rose that he's still seeing that Wilma though," Lucy said.

"What about Rose and that Malfoy kid?" asked Fred, immediately tensing.

"Still going strong," Roxanne assured him, smiling sweetly. "Come on, give it a rest. They've been together two years, you've got to accept him at some point. And didn't you say yourself that he seems different than his dad?"

Despite muttering something inaudible, Fred didn't press the matter.

Shaking Victoire, who was by now almost asleep against his chest, back to consciousness, Teddy spoke up, "I think we'd better call it a night, actually. I'm pretty sure my woman here agrees, despite her slight lack of awareness of this… or anything for that matter," he added as Victoire looked around, seeming utterly perplexed.

Waving goodbye to them, Fred then turned to the rest of them. "So, now that mummy and daddy's gone, let's get started on these drinks for real, shall we? Molly, a refill?"

"I'm not sure…" she began, but Fred interrupted her.

"Course you'll have more than just one drink. It's your birthday for crying out loud!"

"Fine. One more drink then," she agreed, rolling her eyes at his proud stage-whisper to James; "_I _got _Molly_ to have another drink. Of _Firewhiskey_!".

She wasn't that difficult to persuade, really. Well, she could be if she was set on something, but with this, she didn't mind. She had actually quite been planning to drink at least a bit more. She just didn't want to give up her image too much. Even if she was 22 by now, her cousins still expected her to be disapproving of things like that, when really, she had loosened up a lot after quitting school. Not that she drank every night or anything, but tonight was after all her birthday.

The night went on, and the remaining people's drinks were emptied and refilled quite a few times before, as complete blackness was reigning outside, they somehow entered the subject of names.

"Because, really, how is that fair? That just because I'm not born first, I don't get an important name?" Lucy was ranting.

"I know what you mean," Roxanne agreed, casting an apologetic look at Fred who looked drastically surprised at this revelation, but didn't speak. "Especially when _all_ of our cousins got good names."

"We're not named after anyone either," Louis pointed out, gesturing to himself and Dominique.

"Well, at least your names are French," Lucy argued, as though that settled the matter, her eyes slightly glazed over by now. "_And_ you're twins. That's kind of something too, that you got from dead people."

Some words about how this wasn't always terribly fun were on the tip of Louis's tongue when Dominique beat him to it, asking Jerry loudly what time it was. Louis swallowed his retort, instead letting the conversation float on as Anne, sensing his agitation, turned to Fred and James.

"Isn't it weird though? To be named after such famous heroes as Fred Weasley and James Potter?"

Not looking at each other, or anyone else for that matter, Fred and James murmured their agreement.

Feeling that without the alcohol, he would have stopped himself long before he got to this, Fred spoke slowly, "It can be pretty… odd, sometimes, that everyone else knew him, and I never even got to meet him, you know? I mean, he was my dad's twin for a pretty long time."

"My dad never knew his dad though," James said quietly. "It's kind of weird too, because almost no one really remembers him. They just know that he was _so _brave and died to save my dad and my grandmother and all that. I mean, he must've been – well, human, at one point too? He was a bloke, after all."

"Yeah, well, everyone doesn't get all depressed and miserable when they talk about him though. He's just… always been dead. Fred is… he should've been our uncle…" Fred said, his tone rapidly changing from almost harsh to uncharacteristically low and soft.

Everyone fell silent for a moment, contemplating this. Molly could see Louis swallowing hard and Fred staring a bit too intently at the glass in his hand, not seeming aware that he had been about to drink it just moments ago. Jerry's eyes were steadily gazing on the suddenly very stiff Dominique, while James, having had his retort prepared, had stopped himself at Fred's last words and was now frozen, mouth half-agape.

After a few moments and to everyone's surprise (including herself), Molly was the one to break the silence. She hadn't planned it, but she just couldn't stand watching her cousins so miserable, so dejected. They weren't supposed to be that way.

"It's not always so easy to be named after someone alive either," she found herself saying, quietly, but with enough volume for them all to hear and turn to look at her. She felt her cheeks reddening at all the attention, but she had thought about having this conversation with them forever, and this was her chance. She needed to. They needed to. So, grabbing Gary's hand tightly, she continued.

"I just mean – well, obviously it's really difficult for you to try and live up to these dead people who everyone consider almost saint-like. Like Uncle Fred. Especially when you – and all of us – really should have gotten to know him and never did. It's very… unfair."

No one showed any sign of interrupting. That was new. In this crowd, you were usually lucky to get one sentence out with them all paying attention. Now though, their eyes were all fixed on her, almost mesmerized. They never spoke of Uncle Fred. Not when they were all together, like this. She didn't know if the others maybe discussed him in their pairs, but they never did it in her presence anyway. And from the way they were all pointedly not meeting each other's eyes – not even Lucy and Roxanne – she figured that this wasn't exactly a regular topic for any of them.

"I'm just saying that it's kind of weird to know the person you're named after too. Because then you, and everyone else, can see for themselves how admirable they really are, and you know that it's not just because she's a legend and couldn't have been that wonderful in real life – because she really is that perfect, in a way that you,_ I_, could never be," Molly continued, slightly rushed towards the end, her voice growing more high-pitched with each word.

When she squeezed Gary's hand, he squeezed back, but she couldn't turn to him. Not now. At this moment, she needed to bring herself to look at Fred and James.

They weren't looking back at her anymore though. Their eyes were hesitantly, then more and more intently fixed on each other. Even if they weren't speaking, there was something solemn in their gazes, something open, something new. Her job was done, and she allowed herself to lean back against Gary's shoulder, closing her eyes against his arms that were immediately protectively wrapped around her. Her job was done.

**A/N: **Please let me know what you think. I'm not sure when the next "chapter" of this will be up, but if you have any requests on stuff to explore on from "Things", they are very welcome!


	2. Hey, Didn't You Use To Date Fred?

**A/N: **Thank you so much for the response on the last chapter! It really means a lot to me to know that people are interested in this story as well. This is for MrsGrint105, who wanted me to write the conversation between Ron and George after Ron had asked Angelina if she didn't use to date Fred, and for MBP, who asked to know exactly why and how Angelina found out that George wasn't okay afterwards. I really hope you'll all enjoy this! Oh, and a warning for a few curse words.

_**Hey, Didn't You Use To Date Fred?**_

The Burrow wasn't usually a place where George Weasley was nervous. Nowadays, it could be the home of misery, painful memories and a lot of other things he never would have been able to imagine until two years and three months ago. But not nervousness. That was new.

Mostly, he was worried about Angelina's hand. Not that it was hurt or bleeding or anything. No, it was just trembling. Not a lot. Not so much that he would have been able to notice it if the hand in question hadn't been wrapped warmly in his. But, as it was, he felt it. And it was odd. Disconcerting. He had never seen Angelina's hands tremble before, at least not without her whole face being as wet as if she'd just been out for a swim and her whole body shaking with despair. Now, her eyes were dry. But her hand was trembling.

She wasn't supposed to be nervous. Right now, that was his job. She wasn't the one suddenly announcing to her family that she was back to _dating_ again, after expecting to never be able to even look at the female species and care again. What did she have to be so anxious about?

Wishing his mother would hurry up with serving dinner already, he glanced around the table. Bill was looking straight at him, nodding encouragingly as George met his eye (sometimes he almost managed to hate the way his older brother was able to read him so freakishly well). Percy seemed a little stiff – or was he imagining it? Merlin. He really shouldn't be this nervous. Now he was also getting paranoid.

Next to Percy was Harry. Harry was looking kind of uneasy too. He wasn't looking at George or Angelina though. He was looking at Ron. Ron… Something was very wrong with Ron. His lips were tightly pursed together, his brow furrowed slightly, only slightly, but noticeably. And he was staring at Angelina. Intently. Way too intently. (Was it too much to ask of his mother to get some food in here soon, to ease some of this unbearable tension before George's increasing sweating got any worse?)

"Hey, didn't you use to date _Fred_?"

No. Oh, no. No, Ron, you did _not_ just say that. Not here. Not now. Not to her.

But he had. The words were out in the open. They weren't spoken casually either, even if that was probably what Ron had been attempting to achieve (George figured that was why it had taken him so much staring before uttering them). As if anyone would have believed that, especially with the pointed, almost accusatory, way he had said Fred's name. (Really, just the fact that Ron spoke Fred's name meant that the situation was anything but casual.)

Suddenly George's numbness of not having any idea how to react was interrupted by a twitch from the hand in his. Immediately, he turned to Angelina. She wasn't meeting his concerned gaze though. She was staring at Ron, with the air of someone having just been slapped in the face. Hard. Possibly even by a Bludger. So that was what had been bothering her. And now his git of a brother had made her fears reality. Fuck. (The worst part was, had she let him in on her worries beforehand, he would have probably laughed and told her she was being silly – no one in his family would surely even remember her one date with Fred, and if they did, they would most definitely not have the disgrace to mention it _now_. Apparently George had underestimated the idiocy of his youngest brother though.)

A wave of anger hit him, and, getting over his indecision quickly, he fixed Ron with the steadiest glare he could muster. Angry, heated, cold (just not anything like wet or hurt). Seeing the horror rise in his little brother's face didn't affect him. It was good. He deserved it for making Angelina's hand start to shake visibly. George forced himself to let go of it, his one source of support, before she would notice that she wasn't the only one keeping their joint hands vibrating. Making sure with one pointed nod to the door that Ron had got the message, he stood up, before anyone else could speak (not that they looked like they would, ever, but still – predicting his family's behaviour obviously wasn't as easy as he had thought.)

Once he got outside, he didn't pause to check if his brother was still behind him. He knew he would be. And right now, looking at Ron was the last thing George wanted. He walked on determinedly, until he was certain that they were out of earshot from the kitchen. Then he stopped, abruptly, still not turning around.

For a few moments, he just listened to Ron hesitantly inhaling, as if about to speak. Until he finally managed to mutter, to his older brother's back; "I… I'm sorry."

Whirling around, George shouted, his voice louder than he had meant it to be; "Well, you're damn right, you should be! Why in the world would you bring that up, you insensitive prat? Don't you see… don't you have any idea how hard it was for her, just coming here tonight, without you making everything worse? Don't you understand that you said exactly what she was terrified someone would? Don't you – just, what the _hell _was going through your thick head in thinking that you should – that you had any right – to ask her that?"

"I… I dunno… I just… I thought…" Ron mumbled, his voice slightly high-pitched, panic shining from his eyes as he stared, wide-eyed, at his furious brother.

"You thought _what_?" George spat, letting the anger take him over, "That my girlfriend really loves Fred and is only using me as a replacement, since he's dead and I'm the second best thing?"

"Well… no, of course not… I just wanted to… make sure…" Ron spluttered, almost frantic (probably shocked that George had just spoken the words "Fred" and "dead" in the same sentence, which was something they all avoided completely).

Taking deep breaths, George ran his hand through his hair and then over his face, in an attempt to calm himself down. This was going too far. Ron was looking bloody terrified and he had _yelled_ Fred's name. Fred's name wasn't supposed to be yelled. His little brother wasn't supposed to look like that. Especially not when he was looking at him.

"Just… don't _ever_ be such an appallingly tactless git again. Just… don't," he said firmly.

"I won't," Ron hurried to promise. "I'm sorry," he then repeated, quietly, taking a hesitant step closer to his older brother.

"Bit late for that now, isn't it?" George bit back, though he was losing his sharp edge, and he knew it.

"George." Ron was looking at him now, pleading with both his eyes and his voice. He looked miserable. The use of his name, like that, made it harder to hate him. "You know I'm a git with these things, I've always been. I'm not… good at this. For Merlin's sake, I've only got the emotional range of a teaspoon!" Ron blurted out, getting desperate.

"Hermione taught you that expression, didn't she?" George asked, feeling his lips curve slightly upwards, unwillingly.

"Well, yeah," Ron mumbled sheepishly. "She was kind of right though."

"True," George nodded.

"And I was a git. And a prat."

"Yeah. You were," George agreed simply.

"I'm really…" Ron began, taking another step forward. George interrupted him by holding up his hands.

"I know," he said shortly. "Angelina is the one you really ought to be apologizing to though."

"All right. I'll do it, I'll do it right now," Ron assured him directly, eager to make things right. But George's voice stopped him.

"Not here, not now. Not with everyone in there. She wouldn't want that. Later though," George sighed, massaging his temple, just imagining how hard a time his girlfriend would be having already holding it together in there. If her hand had been shaking _that_ much when he left – well, he needed to get back in there, and fast.

"Yeah. Okay," Ron nodded, swallowing.

"Okay," George responded, nodding slowly back at his brother, trying to show him that it kind of was. At least almost. Apparently Ron didn't fully get the message though, or he just didn't trust himself to have interpreted it correctly.

"But… are we… I mean… we're okay, right?" he asked uncertainly.

"I guess," George answered with a grimace. "Once you've made sure my girlfriend will be able to bear your presence without casting a Bat-Bogey Hex on you. Otherwise, I'm not sure I'll risk inviting you to the wedding. Wouldn't want to disrupt the mood with that sight. It wouldn't be pretty."

"The… the wedding?" Ron questioned, his eyes widening.

"You never know, little bro, you never know," George shrugged, allowing his lips to turn upwards again. Tentatively, Ron smiled back at him.

"Come on now, let's see what kind of deliciousness Mum will be serving today, shall we?" George managed to say unwaveringly, clapping his still pretty anxious-looking brother on the back before they went inside.

xxx

George had no idea what the dinner table conversation had been about during the rest of the evening. It had been kept light, he had seen that, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to actually listen. He had only had just enough strength to keep himself sitting there, keep half-smiling, and keep them all from noticing how incredibly exhausted he was and how desperately he wanted to get out of there.

As they were all about to leave, Ron had met his eyes for a second, questioning, and had then at his curt nod taken Angelina outside. Hermione had thrown him a worried look, but she hadn't asked anything. George was a bit amazed at her tactfulness. Especially as she had actually managed to fall in love with his little brother of all people. That must have been a real lapse of judgement.

Now he and Angelina had, _finally_, arrived back at George's apartment above the shop. Not saying a word, they both sat down on George's bed, leaving the other bed of the room respectfully untouched (as it always was, or, at least that was the official version – on some heart-wrenchingly lonely nights, George couldn't keep himself from burying his face in _that_ pillow, hiding under _that_ cover – but no one needed to know about that).

Sighing quietly, Angelina turned her head towards him. George felt it rather than saw it. Right now, the last thing he could do was to look at her. He needed a few more minutes to collect himself first. Then he would check if she was okay. If Ron had done his job properly. How much this night had actually hurt her. Just a few more moments…

But she didn't give it to him. "So… that was quite an interesting night," she said. He heard the attempt of a smile in her slightly shaky voice and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "Ron apologized though. He seemed pretty upset," she went on, causing him to look up.

"He okay?" George asked gruffly.

"I think so," she nodded, searching his face so much that he had to bite his lip to be able to not force his gaze back to the floor.

"You?" Short sentences were good. Not too much use of his untrustworthy voice then.

"I think so," she repeated with a small smile. "How about you?"

He meant to nod. Or to speak and say "fine, obviously, why wouldn't I be" or something of that sort. He did not mean to just remain quiet, causing the concern in her eyes to deepen.

Clearing his throat decisively, he made another attempt. But the words that fell from his lips were not what he had expected, not at all what he had intended.

"I… I'm just not sure if it's okay for me to… to be… well, falling in love. After everything."

He didn't look at her. He couldn't. Not after saying that. Not after admitting he was falling in love with her, at the same time as he was questioning his right to do so. He was sure he did not want to witness her reaction to that.

"What – what are you talking about?" she asked, sounding a little hurt, a little worried and a lot confused.

"What if it – it'll make me feel better to be with you?" he tried to explain, hearing himself how it came out all wrong.

"And just _what_ would be wrong with that?" she asked, now sounding like herself again, defiant and firm.

"Don't you get it?" he snapped, rising from the bed. "I'm not supposed to feel better! They're supposed to _want_ me to feel better, to wish for it, but I'm not supposed to actually get there. I'm… I _was _his twin!"

Breathing heavily, he slumped back beside her after a few moments of pacing. He was closer this time, so that their knees almost touched. He knew he had gone too far.

"I'm sorry," he managed, his voice low.

Nodding, she sighed, reaching out to stroke his thigh. "George," she said, steadily and in a way that made him grip her offered hand tightly. "I'm pretty sure I speak for everyone – your friends, your family, Fred – when I guarantee you that what we all want is for you to be happy. In fact, we _need_ you to be happy again. It's not just something we say. And I can promise you, that no one will be anything but thrilled if that would be the case, someday."

He swallowed hard, letting go of all his self-control, whispering, "Are you sure?"

"Definitely," she answered immediately, squeezing his hand.

After a while of them just sitting there in silence, George found his mouth yet again forming words he had not planned on sharing with anyone.

"Sometimes… I almost wish they'd forget," he mumbled, feeling her intense gaze back on him. "That they'd all forget that I used to be – that I'm supposed to be a Weasley twin. Things'd be a hell of a lot easier."

She waited for him to continue, knowing not to interrupt.

"I know I'm supposed to want them all to remember the good stuff; the joking Fred, the laughing Fred, the hero. And I know I'll never manage to forget him either – not that I want to, it's just… It'd just be so much easier to pretend to be – well, moving on with my life and all that, if… if they didn't all look at me like that. Like they _know_. Like they feel so sorry for me. I just – maybe they won't understand that I haven't forgotten him just because I have you? Maybe they'll think… Maybe he'd think…"

He stopped himself. He wasn't supposed to be saying this. This was things he felt guilty about even thinking. And now he was saying them out loud, to her. She didn't need to hear this. She had had a rough enough night as it was.

"I'm sorry," he muttered again.

"Don't be," she whispered, leaning into him and guiding them into a lying down position while turning off the lights. Even in the darkness, he thought her eyes were a tad wetter than they were supposed to. Putting both of his arms around her, he pulled her closer, resting his nose in her hair. She placed her arms around his waist and started rubbing his back, but she didn't speak. Neither of them did. That night, they didn't sleep either.

**A/N: **Well, I wanted to start light with the first chapter. Now, not so light. Hope you still enjoyed it though. As for requests, they are still welcome and as you can see, I'm doing them! Right now I'll probably do at least one more chapter of "Things" before I get back to this, but I will keep both going as long as anyone's interested in reading them.


	3. Engagement and Freds

**A/N: **I didn't plan on doing more George already, but this came to me, evolving from an idea from MBP (thanks, again!). Hope it works!

_**Engagement and Freds**_

"I'm sure he'll be here soon," Jenny Boot assured her fiancée while putting her hand over his, her worry increasing as she felt it tremble ever so slightly.

Fred didn't reply. He just nodded, keeping his eyes staring unfocusedly ahead.

Honestly, Jenny didn't quite understand. She wanted to, but she didn't. Fred hadn't explained his reasons for suspecting that his father wouldn't be as thrilled by the news of their engagement as his mother and her parents had been. It didn't make much sense to her. Whenever she had met Fred's dad, he had been the most pleasant and joyful man of them all, and she couldn't really see why this information would upset him. However, Jenny knew one thing after her years with Fred. Things with George Weasley weren't always as easy as one would guess as an outsider.

"Hello kids!" The bright voice reached them before the newcomer had fully embodied in the fire. Fred's dad stepped out on the carpet, brushing the dust off his pants and grinning at them both. Until he saw his son's expression. "Something wrong?" he asked, looking from Fred's averted eyes, to her hand covering his, to her. Since Fred at the moment seemed unable to form words, Jenny stepped in.

"Actually, not at all. We have some good news."

"Oh," Fred's father said, sounding relieved, but his frown of concern didn't quite disappear as he kept his eyes on his son. "Let's hear 'em, then."

"Well," Jenny began, casting a sideways hesitant look at her fiancée, wondering if this really should be coming from her. Fred seemed to agree with her there. He had finally raised his head, and his look told her very clearly to let him take it from here.

"Dad…" he started uncertainly.

"Yeah?" his father spoke, encouraging him to continue.

"We… that is, Jenny and I – we're engaged." It sounded almost like he blurted it out, like it was difficult. Like he had to steel himself to do it. She still didn't understand. He had assured her that this wasn't about her, but what if it was? Why else would Fred be so anxious, if it wasn't that he thought his father might not approve?

And then her eyes found Fred's dad, and she knew that wasn't it. She could feel from the tightening grip of her hand that Fred had seen it too. The way his father's face fell, almost unnoticeably since his mouth was still fixed in a grin. But there was something in his eyes… something that wasn't right. At all.

"Well, that's great news, isn't it?" Fred's father managed after a bit too long of heavy silence.

Fred nodded, and Jenny could hear him swallowing tightly. She didn't think he would have been able to speak if he wanted to.

The quiet stretched out for a couple of moments, while Jenny could see both father and son biting their lips hard, in an exact mirroring of each other. It would have been funny, if it wasn't for the fact that Jenny knew all too well that this wasn't a good sign. Fred's teeth on his lip like that usually meant that he was about to run off.

This time, however, his father beat him to it. Standing up with a smile that seemed more forced than ever, he spoke in a falsely cheery voice, "Well, it that was all for today, I'll be off then. Lots of business to attend to. I'll just see you kids later, okay?"

Without waiting for an answer, he had stepped into the fire and was gone. Fred stayed frozen for a few seconds, his lip being more ill-treated than ever. Jenny wanted to say something, anything, but what could she possibly say? Before she could come up with anything, he rose too, gently shaking off her hand and heading for their bedroom. He closed the door behind him, leaving her feeling completely useless.

xxx

They were supposed to have a guys night out. Angelina was off with Alicia somewhere (George didn't even want to know, he'd said), while Katie was at home with Felicia and Amanda having a girls night in. So, Oliver and George had decided to get together. To go out, have a couple of drinks, talk. Their rekindled friendship was still relatively fresh, and Oliver was glad to have been asked, when he knew that Lee would have been the more obvious choice.

As he arrived at George's place, however, he could tell immediately that something wasn't quite as it should be. As he knocked, there was no answer. Trying again, he felt his stomach clench. What if…? Automatically, his eyes searched the sky above the house. No Dark Mark. Obviously. But, even after all these years, he still had to check.

As no response came, Oliver felt the door handle. It was open. Tentatively, he stepped inside. He meant to call out a greeting, but the sound got stuck somewhere in his throat. Because the sight that met him was almost harder to deal with than the sudden irrational fear of a Death Eater attack. Because this wasn't imaginary, at all. This was real. He blinked, and the scene hadn't changed. George was still placed on the couch, unmoving, his face hidden in his hands.

Oliver's first instinct was to run, before George had noticed that he was there. Because there was no way he could deal with this – whatever it was. He was the last person for the job. If he left, maybe he could track down Angelina or Lee, or even one of George's brothers. Anyone would surely be better at this than him.

But, the next second, he knew he couldn't do that. First of all, of course George had already heard him. He had knocked and then entered and George knew who he was expecting. Of course he was aware of Oliver's presence (not that this realization made the fact that George still hadn't acknowledged him in any possibly way any less alarming). Second of all, real friends didn't do that. They didn't run. They didn't leave. Oliver had already fled from this, from George, from his friend, for way too long. There was only one thing to do. He had to stay.

"George," he whispered, immediately regretting this. It sounded silly, and he hadn't at all meant for it to come out so… quietly.

George still didn't move, but he did speak, his voice slightly lower than usual and sounding frighteningly robotic. "Oliver, I'm sorry, but I think we might have to do this another time. I'm… not feeling well."

That seemed to be the understatement of the year, Oliver thought, taking a deep breath before moving to sit beside George on the couch. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly.

"You okay?" he asked, wanting to kick himself. If anything was obvious, it was that right now, George Weasley was anything but okay. As George made a small jerk of the head that supposedly was meant to be a nod, Oliver spoke again, softer. "You're not." George didn't protest. Oliver sighed, wishing desperately for Katie – or anyone who would know what in the world he was supposed to do next.

"What happened?" he asked, needing something to go on.

George was silent for so long that Oliver had already given up on him ever answering when he finally did, making Oliver jump.

"Fred's engaged," George told him, still in that monotonic tone.

"To Jenny?" Oliver asked, just to ask something, to keep the conversation going.

"Yeah." He swallowed audibly. "Fred's engaged and I… _Fred_ will never…"

To his horror, Oliver felt his own eyes start to water at the pain in George's, as he had now finally looked up. He was almost grateful that George wouldn't be able to tell, as his own vision was blurring rapidly.

Right then Oliver couldn't not put his hand on George's shoulder, squeezing it tightly. And when George let out a shuddering breath, gasping for air, he couldn't not pull his friend closer and place both of his arms around him. And as George's heart wrenching sobs echoed, there was no way Oliver could keep his own tears from running silently down his nose.

But he stayed. He stayed, even when George had exhausted himself into an uneasy sleep. Even when he had the perfect opportunity to flee, Oliver just put a blanket over his friend and sat down in the chair next to the couch, keeping his eyes fixed upon George's sleeping form. Because this was the kind of friend he was now. The kind who stayed.

xxx

Fred didn't close his eyes that night. Jenny did, a few times, when watching his face screwed up with the effort not to let any tears fall became too painful. But she didn't sleep. How could she? She didn't speak either. What could she say? No, there still wasn't anything. Instead, she just had to be grateful that he at least wasn't shaking her arms-attempting-to-comfort away, while she was trying desperately to figure out some kind of solution to this – _anything_ that would make her fiancée stop looking like that.

xxx

As the fire turned green around lunch the following day, George figured it'd be Oliver who had forgotten something, or who had come back to check up on him, despite multiple embarrassed reassurances that there was no need. He did not, however, expect Jenny Boot to be stepping out of his hearth, awkwardly putting her hair back behind her ear, greeting him without the hint of a smile.

"Hi, Mr Weasley."

"Jenny," he choked, relieved that he had had the time to take a shower before this. Now, at least, he wouldn't still be having salt marks down his cheeks, even if he was sure the darkness under his eyes was far from erased. Come to think of it, she didn't look too energetic herself. Very determined, though.

"I need to talk to you," she stated simply, her eyes unwavering as they met his.

"Sure," he said, puzzled, but gesturing for her to sit down in the chair Oliver had slept in. "Is everything okay?"

"No," she said bluntly.

"Why? Did something happen? Is Fred…?" he questioned, his fear rising along with his voice.

"No, no, it's not anything like that, Mr Weasley," Jenny hurried to assure him, but she did avoid his eyes as she continued. "Nothing's _physically_ wrong with anyone. But he's not okay. Fred, I mean."

"Oh." Realization hit him. He hadn't been quite as an extraordinary actor last night as he had hoped. Shit. Fred…

"Yes," she nodded, confirming his horror-struck expression. "He knew. It was pretty obvious."

"I…" George started, but he stopped himself, having no idea how to finish that sentence.

"You should talk to him," she told him boldly. "I don't need to hear your explanations. He does. I think I get it. Kind of. It's to do with the first Fred, isn't it?"

"Y-yeah," he mumbled, having to look away from her searching eyes.

"Well then, if it's not that you disapprove for any other reason, you need to talk to him and tell him that. He's pretty much a mess."

"I don't – I didn't mean to," he tried feebly, having to close his eyes for a second against the rush of guilt that overwhelmed him. He had really screwed up pretty bad this time, hadn't he?

"I know," she interrupted him gently. "He doesn't, though. Not yet."

George sighed. That conversation wasn't going to be easy. However, it didn't look like he had much of a choice.

"If you could… not get home for about another hour, that'd be great. I think I need some time alone with my son," he spoke slowly after a few moments of gathering himself.

For the first time during this visit, Jenny smiled at him. "Sure, Mr Weasley."

Despite of his dread of the following hour, George chuckled. "You're going to marry my son, _and_ you're basically ordering me around already. I think it's about time for you to start calling me George."

Her cheeks turning slightly pink, she started stuttering, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be too… Well, it was just… Fred, and I…"

But he shook his head. "Don't apologize. You know you did the right thing."

"Well, yeah," she admitted, her grin back in a second.

"You'll be a pretty great daughter-in-law, you know that?" he said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

"Of course," she smiled. "Now then, George, go fix this."

"Yeah, I think I'll do that." If only it was as easy as she made it sound…

xxx

"Hey, kiddo." Fred's dad waved awkwardly as he stepped out of the very fire his son had been staring at a bit too intently.

"You're not Jenny." The words were out of Fred's mouth before he could stop them. It wasn't the brightest thing to say, because of course it wasn't – saying that hinted that his dad bore any kind of resemblance to his fiancée and well, that was just creepy and very untrue. It was just that she was to be back soon, she'd told him with a mysterious smile and nervous eyes before she'd taken off. And now it had been a while, and he was kind of worried. Plus, he needed her. Especially right now, as his dad was acting stranger than ever. First, he had sat down across the table. Then he had changed his mind and moved to sit next to his son on the couch. And his unreadable expression spoke all too clearly of a discomfort that meant that Fred was not at all looking forward to what was to come.

"Jenny'll be back in an hour or so," his dad suddenly said, reading his son's concern.

"How do _you_ know that?" Fred questioned suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

"I… I just do. Trust me."

Right now, Fred didn't feel too convinced, but he nodded, just wanting to get whatever this was over with as soon as possible.

After a bit of expecting silence, his dad cleared his throat. "You know, I am happy for you, son."

"Really?" Fred had meant for it to come out like a bite, accusingly, but it sounded more defeated than anything else.

"Of course," his dad spoke, softer, putting his hand on his son's thigh. "Of course I am. I… I'm really, _really _sorry for not showing that properly, last night." Fred looked at his knees, biting his lip hard. "It's just…" his dad hesitated, while Fred held his breath. "You know that you're named after my twin, Fred, right? Well, it's always, and I think it'll always be… hard, for me, to experience these major events without him. It kind of reminds me of what he'll never get to do. He'll never get the chance to watch his son marry a truly remarkable woman. Hell, he never even got to marry one himself. And that's… bloody unfair, don't you think?"

Fred could just nod shortly, amazed, feeling an unwelcome lump rising in his throat at his dad's only almost-steady voice.

"But what would also be terribly unfair would be for us not to be able to be happy, now, because of that. For that, I'm really sorry. Last night, I wasn't fair. To you, or to Jenny."

"It's okay," Fred mumbled, unable to stand his dad looking that miserable.

"It's not, really," he sighed, "but I do appreciate you saying that."

And then, somehow, Fred found his head buried in his dad's shoulder, his dad's strong arms wrapped tightly around him in a way he couldn't remember since he was very little. They stayed that way for a long time, just holding onto each other.

As they finally let go, Fred saw his dad pretending to look out the window to give him a chance to wipe his eyes quickly on his sleeves. Turning away himself to do so, he suspected strongly that this was as much for his dad's sake as his own.

"So," his dad then said, now with a real smile, "let's get on to planning that engagement party, shall we not? I'm thinking loads of fireworks and cake."

**A/N: **On Tuesday, I'm off to Italy for two weeks. Unfortunately, probably without a computer. I might get in another "Things" update before then, but if I disappear from updating and reviewing for a while, that's why.

For now, I really do hope you enjoyed this. And that you'll let me know whatever you thought about it.

Oh, and I updated my profile, if anyone's interested.


	4. Things Could Be Worse

**A/N: **Hi! I'm back, as most of you probably know. But, well, now I'm back with a "Moments" chapter too. This is for FinnFiona, because even though this was my suggestion, she was the one who told me I had to do it. And, well, since you said "pretty please", of course I _had_ to do it. And fast. So, here you go!

_**Things Could Be Worse**_

Could things possibly get any worse, Ginny Weasley wonders bitterly. But, when she thinks about it – _really_ thinks about it – she realizes that of course they could.

The man she loves, her favourite brother and her very good friend could have been found dead already (in reality that is, not only in her constant, terrorizing nightmares of abandoned, broken glasses, red blood mixing with red hair and staring, empty eyes).

She could have not received letters from all of her other brothers during the past week, confirming that they are still safe (well, all of her brothers except for Percy, but he's not her brother anymore, he hasn't been her brother since he didn't seem bothered at all with the fact that their _dad_ was almost dead and possibly dying – hence, Ginny doesn't care that he doesn't let any of them know if he's okay or not, because she doesn't care anymore if he is okay or not, because he's not her brother anymore and she just doesn't care).

She could not know that her parents are safe at home, behind all the protective enchantments. Neville could have been taken from her too. Voldemort himself could be headmaster instead of Snape. They could all be dead already. And, well, that's about it. Except for those things, right now it's about as bad as it could possibly get.

The man she loves (the man whose name she can no longer speak because he's supposed to be here when she's feeling like this and he's supposed to make it all better by just existing, but she doesn't know if he even does exist anymore and if he will ever make her feel better again – hence, she has stopped pronouncing his painful name, even in her mind), her favourite brother (who should have taken her with him, everywhere, like he promised when he was five and her best friend, because she cannot stand waiting and not knowing if she'll ever see him again and therefore her mouth just can't form his name either) and her very good friend (who she maybe, just maybe, could have spoken the name of, if it wasn't for the fact that she is way too directly associated with the other two that she won't even _think_ of) – those three have been gone for way too many _months_, and even if Ginny's reasoning tells her that their capture would have been all over the papers had it occurred, something closer to her heart is unable to fully trust that.

And, even if she has recent notes from her family reporting that everyone is fine, Bill's was sent five days ago and Charlie's even six. In these times, she can't even be sure about Fred and George, whose short but cheering note made her relieved laughter turn into relieved tears only yesterday (she really does seem to be losing her grip, even if she thankfully was alone in her dormitory at the time) – everything could have changed since yesterday.

Plus, Luna being gone doesn't only mean that she has lost yet another friend, but it has also brought down Neville, whose determination was inspiring and strengthening and something she depended on. These days, he seems to need her almost as much as she needs him to stay afloat through all the waiting and waiting (she never was the patient type).

But, yes, things could be worse. Even though they are, right now, pretty damn bad.

xxx

Could things possibly get any worse, Neville Longbottom wonders resignedly. The answer is that they could, he has to admit that. Worse is always possible.

Because his grandmother could be in danger too, instead of safe at home. His parents could be dead instead of what they are (and, really, this _is_ better, even if some may not understand, because they are there, even if they aren't – and maybe, _maybe_, someday someone will figure out a way to fix them, you never know, right?).

Luna's death could have been announced (because it would be, right, if it had happened – why would they keep something like that a secret when they know it would only bring down their side's morale even further?). Ginny could have been taken away from him too.

They could all be without the hope of Harry, Ron and Hermione doing their mysterious something off the radar that will surely help them all in due time, right, that will help fix all this, right?

He could be dead, right now. They all could be.

Neville could have not happened to kiss Luna just hours before she was taken. He could have been too much of a coward to ever have the guts. He's glad he wasn't. He's almost sure it hurts less this way. Almost. Because at least now, if one of them dies, she'll know that he… loves her? No, she won't know that. But she'll know that he cares. She knows that. Maybe that will help her. Maybe it helps him. It sure doesn't feel that way right now, but you never know. Things could be worse.

xxx

Things are pretty bad as they are though, because Ginny's gaze is intently fixed upon the common room fire and there is something remotely like wetness in her eyes. And Ginny Weasley doesn't cry. Never.

"Hey," Neville says softly, tentatively placing his hand on her arm. It's worth the risk of her snapping at him, screeching something unpleasant and storming upstairs. She's done it before, and he can take it. She might need someone to take some of her frustration out on. Or she might just need someone to be here. Either way, he's offering. She's been suffering like this a lot longer than he has.

Ginny turns to him slowly, confused by his touch, her eyes slightly out of focus. "Oh, hi," she mumbles faintly, seemingly just remembering who he is and that he is here and that she is here and not somewhere else (probably in this very common room, by this very fire, a year earlier, sitting a lot closer to a certain someone who's nearly Neville's age to the day).

Since she doesn't look even a little annoyed, Neville can almost rule out that this is a volcano eruption day, and he doesn't remove his hand. "You okay?" he asks, still a bit hesitant, because she usually detests that question, but something is different today. And, really, his life won't be made much worse by her yelling at him now and apologizing in the morning. He can take worse than that. He has. The bruise on his upper arm and the cut on his chin prove that.

To his surprise, Ginny shakes her head. She always nods, shortly, at that particular question. He always knows that she's lying, and she knows that he knows, but something is definitely different today and she doesn't even bother to pretend. He squeezes her arm a little, at a loss for what to say now that she's not following their routine. It's probably healthy for her, for them, to break it. That doesn't change the fact that has no idea how to respond to this.

She sighs, her gaze finding its way back to the fire, as if she's hoping someone's head will appear there to tell them something, anything, that they want to hear. Like that Luna has been released now that her dad has stopped printing forbidden stuff in the Quibbler. Or that, by the way, Harry Potter has just gotten rid of Voldemort and it is now possible to breathe again. Neville looks too. No one appears. Ginny sighs again, deeper this time.

"She should be here," she whispers, her voice almost-cracked, her lips barely moving. She doesn't look at him. He knows who she's referring to and his heart wrenches as her grinning face appears in front of his eyes, waving happily at him, like when her lips had just touched his cheek for the first time (was that really less than a year ago?). "I know," he mutters, his voice lower than usual. He's staring at his knees, in case Ginny would turn her head. Just in case.

He can't speak for a few moments. He's not sure if she silences for the same reason, or if she just doesn't have anything more to say. If she's just gone again, back in time to jokes about tattoos of Hungarian Horntails and Pygmy Puffs (he knows that she misses Ron as much as she misses Harry, despite what everyone else assumes – that romantic love is all that matters). Neville overheard that conversation, as well as many others the two of them had during their time together last year. And he was thrilled for both of them. They deserved each other, Harry and Ginny. They still do. His throat closes again at the thought, just when he was about to regain his voice – because what if they'll never even get to see each other again? What if one of them, or both of them, will be dead before they get the chance? Or, what if he himself will be dead before he'll get to witness both of his friends' eyes light up again in that way that only happens when they are together?

xxx

Ginny knows that Neville stopped watching her in concern when she mentioned Luna. His hand is still warmly present on her arm, though, keeping her in this moment, keeping her from floating away again. She's not sure if she's grateful about that or not. The fantasies are a lot more pleasant, but they also make the reality seem another shade darker and colder when she has to return.

Because they're still not here. Four of the most important people to her are gone, and she has no idea if she will ever see any of them again (alive, that is, because seeing their dead bodies doesn't count, it just doesn't). Is it odd then that she prefers reliving moments of kissing in the moonlit grass, playing with the gnomes in the garden with her then so _big_ brother (at six, seven basically seemed like a grownup), just talking to her most trusted friend, or hearing Luna saying something that could make all their lips turn upwards, almost no matter the circumstances.

Of course, Neville is still here. That's something. He's here and his hand is on her arm, keeping her here too. Well, right now she kind of drifted away for a few seconds, but she's back in time to hear him swallowing a little too hard. She turns to him, only to find his head bent down. Automatically, her hand finds his thigh. She wants to hug him, tight, but she doesn't think either of them can take that much human contact right now. Not with the common room being as crowded as it is.

Now he looks up, pain etched too clearly in his eyes for her to be able to keep her gaze steady. She sighs again, not knowing what else to do. She turns away. There are too many curious eyes in here that would just love to see her finally breaking down. Ginny Weasley doesn't cry (at least not in anyone else's presence), but seeing that hopelessness in those very eyes that are supposed to be giving her hope isn't exactly helpful to keeping that statement true. And she has to. She's not sure exactly why it's so crucially important that she keeps it that way, but it is. Maybe it's because she feels she needs to be ready to fight at any moment, and can't let her guard down. Maybe it's because she's afraid that if she opens the drain, she'll never be able to even get up again. Maybe it's because Ginny Weasley _doesn't_ cry and that's just the way it is, and nothing they can do to her is going to change that. Because she cannot let them change her.

xxx

"Do you – do you think they're alright?" Neville asks, feeling foolish for asking, feeling stupidly insensitive because he's the one causing her eyes to gleam even more. He wonders since when his mouth got a life of its own and started speaking without his permission, just because he _needs_ to know if she agrees with him that they would have heard something, right, if anything had changed.

Ginny starts, her hand flying off him. At first he thinks she's going to storm off to her room, that he's finally crossed the line, even today. But she sinks back down in her seat with a deep breath, determinedly putting her hair behind her ear as if to steady herself.

She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out, only a small amount of air. She makes another attempt, putting her hair firmly behind her left ear this time. This time there are sounds, if only such that are so weak that he has to lean forward to catch their meaning. "I… I don't know," she breathes, her voice clearly trembling now. "They… they have to be. They just have to," she finishes, gaining a shadow of that Ginny Weasley certainty in her eyes as they glare at him for a moment, daring him to contradict her.

He decides that he has to follow this through, that he needs to know, even if he's not sure that she can take much more of this (or that he can, for that matter). "We… we would have heard… something, right, if…?" He can't complete that sentence, it's too… well, he just can't. She knows what he means, though. She nods slowly, blinking a little too fast. "Yeah," she agrees quietly after a tense pause of just blinking, "they'd like us to know. They… they know what it'd… do to us."

He nods back, hoping that she is right (and hoping beyond hope that those Death Eaters will never get the chance to test what effect such information would have on them). She opens her mouth to say something more, but she's interrupted by an excited shout from the other end of the common room – "Hey everyone, it's Potterwatch, it's starting, come on, hurry!"

Disregarding everything else, they both jump to their feet at once. Neville's hand finds Ginny's in the process and she pulls him along, even more eager than he is. Within seconds, the corner where someone has blessedly placed a radio is packed, everyone straining to get the best possible listening spot. He still marvels at the way the common room falls silent at these times, in a way he's never witnessed it before. He hardly dares breathing himself, waiting for what is to come, wondering whose names will be read this time…

He can feel Ginny's body stiffen beside him. She, as always, closes her eyes in relief as she detects her brother's voices, still cheerful. Neville squeezes her hand. She opens her eyes again, a faint smile on her tight lips. He knows that she's thinking the same thing he is – if something had happened, they'd know. They have to believe that. They just have to.

**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed this. Please let me know what you thought. Next, I'm pretty sure I'll get back to "Things" and do Hannah, but after that I might get back to this again.


	5. The Chosen One

**A/N: **This is for FinnFiona, for all your encouragement and ideas. And for MBP, for suggesting this, and because, well – it was my turn to update. (Now it's yours, by the way.) Hope you'll all enjoy this.

_**The Chosen One**_

Harry Potter had known Neville Longbottom for a long time. They had been close friends for many years. More than once they had spent the night out, just the two of them, with quite successful results. You would think that Harry wouldn't be particularly nervous as he walked down the chilly street of Hogsmeade, as he was only meeting said Neville for a few drinks. But then, you would think wrong.

If Harry had had the choice, he would be on his way to Alaska or Australia right now, or, even more preferably, back under his bed covers. Anywhere that wasn't here. But, every time his feet felt the urge to turn around, Hermione's voice echoed in his head, telling him simply – after he had once again repeated all of his arguments as to why all of their lives would be simpler without this horribly awkward conversation ever taking place – "You're still going to do this, Harry, because you know it's the right thing to do". Ron's sympathetic expression was there too, nodding, "She's right, mate, it's about time". But the greatest reason as to why Harry wasn't already back in the comfort of his home was Ginny's tight embrace just before he left, along with her warm whisper in his ear, "He deserves to hear this, from you".

So, here he was. Walking. Still walking. Not turning back. He sighed, wishing someone else could do this instead, or at least help him do it. Someone who was better at this. A girl, preferably. Hermione had offered to come with him, of course, but he had turned her down, no matter how much he right now craved her company. This was something between him and Neville, and that really was the only way it could be done.

With a deep breath, Harry stepped into the Hog's Head, looking around a little too frantically. But, no, Neville hadn't arrived yet. Good. This gave him the opportunity to, once again, go over his reasons as to why he was putting them both through this. Because Hermione would never get off his back if he didn't. Because Ron would take her side, like he always did to avoid being brutally murdered. Because of the disappointment that would shine from Ginny's eyes if he came home tonight and admitted that he had chickened out.

But those were of course not the only reasons, he knew that. Those were just the simpler ones, the unquestionable ones. Because how did he know that Neville wouldn't prefer living in the dark, not having to ponder these what-could-have-beens? How did he know that this wasn't for his own sake – because he hated lying to one of his best friends and would feel better after telling the truth – while it would just bring Neville a lot of unnecessary pain? Ginny's firm voice was in his ear again, telling him that Neville deserved to know. And yes, of course he deserved it, but what if what he deserved even more after everything he had gone through was some peace and happiness, not to be disturbed by sudden revelations?

But then the door flew open, and Harry's already confused mind went back many years, seeing, instead of the fully grown man that actually did enter the pub, a fifteen year old round-faced boy with a look of shaky determination on his face. This was where it had all started. He sighed internally. He really would have to do this.

Half-heartedly greeting the smiling man in front of him, he mentally kicked himself for being about to wipe that grin right off. He didn't listen as Neville chattered on about something Daisy had been caught doing that morning. Harry simply sat there quietly, until Neville asked the question he was both dreading and awaiting impatiently.

"So, your note said you had something to tell me?" he said lightly.

"Yes," Harry nodded, hearing himself how strained his voice sounded. "Yeah. Right."

"Okay then," Neville waved him on, a small frown now creasing his forehead. "Talk away."

Here went nothing, Harry thought, clearing his throat. "Well, you know… um… Voldemort?"

"I do," Neville said, looking more puzzled than ever, though slightly amused.

"Well, yeah… of course you do." Harry really wasn't good at this. "Right. Er… but, what you don't know is that, before we were born, there was this prophecy…"

The speaking part got easier after a while. He did after all know this story by heart, having told it multiple times. Add the extra practicing in his head for the last month, and it made the words come pretty much by themselves once he had just gotten started. What did not become any less difficult, however, was watching Neville's mouth first fall open in shock and then how his lips pursed tighter and tighter together by the second.

By the time Harry was finished, Neville's face had gone beyond white, reaching a quite frightening shade of grey. Harry had no idea what to say (his internal conversation had never made it this far without a response). When Neville still seemed incapable of forming words after a couple of minutes, he decided to speak anyway, just because he couldn't stand not to.

"Er… well, so… now you know," he stated stupidly. "I thought – and Ron, Hermione and Ginny agreed – that you deserved to be to told about… all this."

Neville nodded mutely, his eyes appearing oddly empty of emotion.

"Were we right?" Harry couldn't refrain himself from asking, in his slight panic over Neville's lack of response. "I mean, maybe – maybe it would have been better if you didn't – maybe you didn't want to…?"

"It's better… that I know." The words were articulated slowly, hollowly, and came out with an explosive breath that Harry didn't know Neville had been holding. With deep concern, he eyed his old friend, who right at this moment looked more lost than Harry had seen him since the beginning of their school years.

"You're sure you're… all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course," Neville brushed him off, waving his hand in the air in what was supposed to be a casual manner. But Harry didn't miss how tightly he swallowed while he was shaking his head for a bit too long. "I just… Daisy is getting pretty wild these days and Robert's not exactly a picnic either, so I feel kind of bad leaving Hannah alone with them for too long."

"Oh." Harry hated himself. Neville was obviously not okay at all, and what was also obvious was that he couldn't wait to get away from Harry. He couldn't say he blame him. Harry was, after all, the one who had opened up this old can of worms. "Well, yeah, I guess we're pretty much done here anyway. Ginny might want some help getting James to bed too. Pretty wild is an understatement for him."

"They do learn from each other," Neville put in, offering a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes (really, it barely even reached his lips, whose attempts at turning upwards were pretty feeble).

"That they do," Harry replied, trying to sound completely normal (and not very, very concerned and guilty and slightly hurt at the sudden departure). "Right, I guess I'll see you soon then?" It was a question, a pretty desperate one at that, hurried after Neville as he turned to leave. However, Neville didn't take it as that. He just nodded distractedly, without turning around, before stepping out of the door and Disapparating with a pop that felt like a fierce blow to Harry's stomach. This had definitely not gone as well as he had hoped it would.

xxx

The Potter house's kitchen smelled of breakfast and warmth and family. Ginny had welcomed Neville in with the air of not being the mildest bit surprised at him turning up at their house at eight in the morning, without any kind of warning. Like it was something that occurred every day. It wasn't, but he was grateful for her lack of questions, even though he didn't quite like the knowing glint in her eyes.

Right now, Ginny was sweeping around the kitchen with Lily on her hip, trying to simultaneously scramble eggs at the stove, feed the three year old Albus some cereal and talk to Neville. He was amazed, really, but this wasn't the moment for those kind of thoughts to last long in his mind. Instead, Hannah's firm voice came to him, telling him he shouldn't put this off, because that would only make it worse.

"If you're looking for Harry, he's upstairs, trying to get my dear son to actually put his pants on his legs and not on his head," Ginny told him casually, her back to him.

"Oh," was all Neville managed. Putting this off seemed _so_ much simpler than actually doing it. This time, Hannah was wrong. There had to be a first for everything, right? "Well, I'll let him take care of that then. Sounds like he's got his hands full," he tried, but apparently he had forgotten who he was talking to.

"Nonsense," Ginny stated bluntly. "You won't get out of this that easily. You're here, aren't you? Just tell him to send James down, pants or no pants."

When Neville still didn't move, Ginny put down the frying pan and went to squeeze his shoulder with her free hand. "Come on, Neville. Just go talk to him. You both need that."

He swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Hannah said that too."

"She's a wise woman, your wife," Ginny smiled, letting go of him to give Albus a spoonful.

"It's just… I don't know how to…" he began, but his insecurities were interrupted forcefully.

"Seriously, Neville," she said, rolling her eyes impatiently, "you and Harry have known each other for what – eighteen years now? He was the same last night, before he went to tell you."

"He was?" Neville asked, surprised. _Harry_ had been nervous to see _him_?

"Yeah," Ginny went on. "And I think it's completely ridiculous! You don't have to know _exactly_ what you're going to say to him, you'll just take it as it comes, okay? It's not like the two of you have never talked to each other before, and about pretty serious stuff too, but honestly, the way you're acting…" She stopped to take a breath, then softened her voice, motioning for the stairs. "Just go and _talk_ – you know, form words. 'Hello' might be a nice opening, or perhaps 'good morning' if you prefer that." He gave an unwilling chuckle. "Now, go!" she urged him, even giving him a small push in the back.

"Okay, okay, I'm going," he half-grinned, half-sighed. "Bossy lady," he added in an undertone, just loud enough for her to hear.

"Wimpy boys," she responded, having already turned back to the stove.

xxx

To Ginny, this might seem easy. Neville wholeheartedly disagreed. The fact that he and Harry had had many talks in the past did not mean it had prepared them for this. He knew that _nothing_ had ever prepared him for what he heard last night, and he was well aware now that he hadn't handled it in the best manner possible. He had to apologize. Yes. He would, of course, because he had to. But that didn't mean it wouldn't be hard.

"No, James. You have heard this a million times – pants don't go on the head at all, and t-shirts go _beyond _the head. They do not stay there, because then you don't see, and when you don't see anything, you walk into stuff and that hurts, okay?"

Neville almost laughed at the exasperation in Harry's voice. Almost. He took a deep breath and entered James's room.

"Hi," he said awkwardly, causing Harry to freeze and drop James's t-shirt on the floor – an opportunity James didn't miss to take it and pull it back over his head.

"Oh," was all Harry seemed to manage at first. Then he gathered himself, put a hand through his unusually messy hair (to no good, obviously) and said, "Hey. Um… James, why don't you go downstairs and see if Mum's got breakfast ready by now? And take the t-shirt off before you go, we don't want you rolling down the stairs, walking is a _lot_ better. Bring it down and ask Mum to help you with it instead, okay?"

For once, James did what someone told him without questioning. Even he could probably tell from his father's voice that this wasn't the moment for arguing.

And, so, they were left alone. Harry was still looking intently at Neville, who was getting very uncomfortable with the wondering in his gaze, and decided to just jump right into it.

"I'm sorry I was kind of rushed with leaving last night," he said quietly.

"It's fine," Harry shrugged, now frowning at him with some kind of mix of curiosity and – concern?

"Yeah, but I… I shouldn't have just taken off, like that. You… you did the right thing, telling me. I mean, it was a bit… well, yeah, but it's better that I know, okay?" he stammered, feeling his face redden slightly at his rambling tendencies.

"Are you sure?" Harry's voice was small and disbelieving. And he was staring at his shoes. God, when did they both become thirteen again? And how could Neville make it stop? (Even if he had to admit, it did make him feel a little better that Harry wasn't completely unbothered by the situation either.)

"I'm sure," he said firmly. "It's weird, though," he couldn't help but adding.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, finally looking up with something like relief etched clearly in his features.

"I don't really know how I'm supposed to… feel... about it."

"Very understandable."

"I… I'm sorry he chose you," he blurted out.

"You are?" Harry asked sceptically. "Why?"

"Well…" Neville hadn't exactly thought this through. "Because I… I didn't want you to have to go through all… that."

"I survived, didn't I?" Harry shrugged it off. "Plus, it's not like it was _your _fault that Voldemort didn't choose you instead."

"I guess. But still… I don't know how I ever could have managed all the stuff you did."

"You could've," Harry spoke, without missing a beat in hesitation. Neville wasn't so sure, no matter what Hannah had said. She was his wife. She had to tell him he could've done everything. But Harry… he had to know if Harry really meant that.

"Do you – I mean, do you really think I could've… you know… done all the fighting and the Horcrux hunting and the dying and surviving? If it had been me?" He would have mentally kicked his own butt for uttering these words out loud – and to Harry of all people – if he hadn't been so desperate to know the answer.

"Yes. Of course," Harry replied, after staring incredulously at him for a second. "And I'm not just saying that," he added, as Neville opened his mouth to protest. "Look, you basically did the same things I did anyway, prophecy or no prophecy. You grew up without your parents, you led the DA, you fought him, you helped destroy him once and for all…"

"It's not the same, though," Neville said quietly.

"Almost. And, look, I won't say that anyone could have done what I did if they had been in my situation, because that would be a lie. But you – definitely. No question," Harry assured him, his eyes sincerely piercing into Neville's in a way that made it hard to believe he was just saying this as a confidence boost.

Neville nodded, swallowing.

"Okay?" Harry asked, taking a step towards him.

"Yeah," Neville said, managing a smile. "The idea will take some getting used to, though."

"I can imagine," Harry grinned cautiously.

They stood in silence for a couple of moments, neither sure what to do with themselves. Then Harry sighed in a determined way and went and pulled Neville into a one-armed, short embrace. Neville was surprised, but the tension in the air did ease quite a lot afterwards.

"You'll stay for breakfast now, won't you?" Harry suggested brightly as he let go. "If I know my wife, she's already counting on it. Plus, Al will be thrilled. You may risk James holding a bit of a grudge because you didn't bring Daisy along, but that you would have got anyway, just by entering. I'm actually quite surprised he hasn't come running up here demanding to know where she is already."

"Remind me to thank Ginny for that," Neville grinned.

"Sure. So you'll stay, right?"

"Yeah. I'll stay."

"Good," Harry smiled, looking even more relaxed. "I'm starving. Let's go."

xxx

"Did you tell him?" was Hermione's first question as Harry stepped out of their fire that afternoon.

"Hello to you to. And, yes, I did tell him," Harry added when her anxious expression didn't fade.

"Oh, how did it go? Was he upset? Angry?" she continued, her eyes far wider than normal.

"Did he think you could've told him a tad bit sooner?" Ron added in an undertone, but despite his sarcasm, he too kept his gaze expectantly at Harry with a slight frown of concern.

"Well, at first, it was bad. Really bad. He… kind of stormed out." Harry could see them both stiffening, so he hurried on. "But this morning, he came over to see me, we talked and now everything's fine. He'll be fine. It was right to tell him."

"We told you, mate," Ron exclaimed, with a relief that turned into a smirk.

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. You were right, I was wrong. You happy?"

"Very," Ron grinned smugly, pulling his wife into his lap. She, however, leaned away from his kiss.

"Oh, Ron, honestly, don't be so insensitive," she reprimanded her husband, then turning to Harry. "Harry, you're sure you're both okay now?"

"Fine. I promise," he assured her.

"That's great then," she smiled. "And not something to mock him about," she added, turning to her husband with a stern look. "I'd like to see you having that talk with someone, telling them after all these years how close they were to becoming Lord Voldemort's enemy number one!"

That sobered Ron a bit, but his grin was back within seconds. "Well, yeah, but we were still right, weren't we?"

**A/N: **Parts of the talk with Hannah that is referred to here is to be found as "thing" number 10 in chapter 30 of my story "Things", if anyone who hasn't already read that is interested.

Anyway, I'll be going away for a short trip again, and while I will be bringing my computer, I have just realized that the chances of Internet access are pretty slim. So if you don't hear from me in a week or so, that'll be why. I will keep writing, just probably not update or review in a while (after Sunday that is).

Hope you enjoyed this, and don't forget to let me know what you thought!


	6. Pregnancies and Patience

**A/N: **This is for Jess.91, who requested something about how it took Lucy a while to get her kid, and for FinnFiona, who ages ago planted the idea in my head that Hermione would have been a good help to Lucy at that time.

_**Pregnancies**__** and Patience**_

Lucy Weasley is not pregnant. Not even a little bit. She has, just five minutes ago, had that fact confirmed to her yet again. The bloody test has once more mockingly informed her that she is still torturously NOT PREGNANT.

Before that, Lucy has spent the day in the company of her favourite cousin/best friend and Goddaughter. This has put her in a horrible the-world-can-bite-my-ass mood. But it shouldn't. Roxanne is supposed to cheer her up, not bring her down just by smiling too much. Roxanne is supposed to be the only one who understands her – but how could she possibly understand this? _She_ has already been pregnant. _She_ only had to wait six damn months. Six damn months…

Just as Lucy's anger is about to fade into something more like hopelessness, she hears her husband fumbling with the lock. She quickly removes her hands from her face, forcing a smile as he greets her with a kiss on the cheek.

"You and Roxanne have fun today?" Tim asks casually, though with a slight frown. Sometimes, she really wishes that she was a better actress.

"Sure," she nods, keeping her eyes carefully averted from his.

"Well, that's enthusiastic," he sighs, dropping down on the arm of her chair. "Are you lying?"

"No," she states lowly. Why can't he _ever_ just drop things?

"You sure about that? Did something happen?" he asks, stroking her cheek. She shrugs him off, fixing him with a cold glare.

"I said no, didn't I?"

"All right, all right, I was just checking," he backs down, raising his hands in defence. "Jeez, with all your mood swings, you'd think you were pregnant or something!"

He has said the worst thing possible. He doesn't realize, of course. She knows that. She is aware of the fact that she is overreacting. But, right now, she doesn't care, because she just can't believe he actually said that, and it hurts, and right now she hates him.

"Well, I'm not, in case you haven't noticed!" she snaps, standing up with furious tears prickling at her eyelids. "Didn't you ever stop to think that maybe _that_ is the problem?"

She storms off, up the stairs, slamming their bedroom door hard behind her. Burying her face in her pillow, she cries bitterly, listening for any sound indicating that he's about to come up after her. He doesn't. For that, she hates him even more.

xxx

The knock on her door is too late, and too soft to be Tim's. Lucy doesn't answer. She most definitely does not want to speak to anyone else right now.

Whoever is at the door is not quite as respectful as she would wish, though. After a couple of more insistent knocks, the door opens slowly. Lucy turns away in protest, without bothering to brush her hands over her damp cheeks. Whoever is there can either leave now and never have to know her state, or insist and then get what's coming to them.

But, as the person speaks her name, Lucy is so caught off guard that she turns around without thinking. "Aunt Hermione!" she exclaims, gaping. This she had definitely not expected. Then, at Hermione's concerned gaze, she realizes how much her red eyes must be giving her away, and flushes. "I…" she begins, but doesn't know how to finish. "Wh-what are you doing here?" she asks instead.

"Checking up on you," Hermione replies simply. "Tim sent me. He was quite worried."

"Oh."

"May I sit down?" Hermione asks, gesturing to the bed.

"Sure," Lucy says, slightly confused.

"I take it we've established that you're not okay, so I might as well skip asking," she goes on. Lucy doesn't protest. She doesn't see the point to, with the appearance she knows is clearly spelling _not okay_. "I hear you're trying to get pregnant," Hermione then adds, a slight hesitation in her voice at how fast she's approaching the subject.

Lucy nods. No point in denying that either. She's twenty-eight, married. Since she was a kid, she's been planning to have tons of kids, naming at least ten of them before she was eleven. Aunt Hermione, of course, knows this.

"I'm assuming it's not easy for you then, spending so much time with Roxanne and Sarah." Lucy really shouldn't be surprised. Aunt Hermione has always been so talented at knowing how everyone is feeling, you'd think she was using Legilimency constantly. Still, she can't help a little amazement at how precisely on the spot she manages to be.

"No," she admits weakly, swallowing. "It's not."

"If you don't mind me asking, how long have you been trying?"

"Almost three years," she whispers, closing her eyes a second from the pain of her own words.

"Which would mean that you and Roxanne started at the same time," Hermione finishes for her, her voice slightly shaky for the first time.

"We… we wanted to… do it together," Lucy mumbles, blinking fast.

"Oh, Lucy, come here," Hermione sighs, pulling her into a warm embrace, causing the sobs hitched in Lucy's throat to escape. She lets go, allowing herself to relish in the comfort that feels like childhood.

When Lucy has pulled herself together, she shifts away on the bed, feeling her face reddening. "Sorry," she apologizes to the floor.

"Nonsense," says Hermione firmly. "You have every right to be upset. I know I was, when Ginny got pregnant such a long time before I did," she adds quietly. She half-smiles at Lucy's wide eyes and continues. "We were also planning to do it at the same time. We never considered that it might not happen, for one of us. When she got pregnant with James, I was just thinking 'any day now, it'll happen for us as well'. But it never did. And, suddenly, she had a baby, and I wasn't even pregnant. It was… difficult. I… broke down a bit, and started to worry that there was something wrong."

"But it wasn't. You got Rose just a year later."

"I did," Hermione agrees with a soft smile. "But I didn't know that then. All I knew was that my best friends had a baby, and I didn't."

"And you hated it?" she puts in, without quite meaning too. Hermione looks slightly startled at her bluntness, but nods slowly.

"And I hated it," she confirms. "Not them or James, of course. Just the situation. But I really, really, did hate that."

"Me too," Lucy whispers, and Hermione grabs her hand again.

"I know you do, honey. But the others don't. They have no idea what's bothering you. I know they're all worried about you, but they don't know why. Well, Tim's starting to get an idea now, I guess, but Roxanne has no clue as to why you've been behaving so oddly lately. Angelina says she's really afraid she's done something wrong."

"But she hasn't!" Lucy exclaims. "She can't help that she got pregnant and I didn't."

"No, she can't. But you don't have to blame her. You could just tell her, talk to her. Tim too."

"But… they can't do anything! No one can," she adds bitterly.

"They can be there for you, like I know they want to be."

"I don't want to…"

"You won't. But it'll be easier when they know, when you're not alone with this. Trust me, I know."

xxx

_Hermione had coped with __many things without breaking down in her life, yes, but this was different. There had not been an opportunity to break down then – it had been pull it together or risk dying. Nowadays, things were different. And Hermione just couldn't do this. _

_Discreetly slipping out the back door of The Burrow, she hoped desperately that everyone was too busy admiring the newborn and his glowing mother to notice. Being found blinking back tears at a birth celebration was about the last thing she wanted._

_But she couldn't help it. Just watching Ginny's radiant smile as she cooed the tiny James in her arms was unbearable. Hermione wanted that too, so badly. All they had gone through, every horrible thing, it had been for them to be able to have a future, hadn't it? And, in her mind, that future had always been of her and Ron having a family. A family. Damn it. _

_Taking deep breaths, she blindly hurried along the garden. Away. Just away from that sickening happiness. She really was horrible, wasn't she? These were her best friends and she couldn't even manage to smile for them when they were both experiencing the most wonderful… But no. She couldn't. Surely, no one would miss her anyway. Well, Ron might. But, hopefully, he'd be too busy goggling at the baby along with everyone else. The fact that they still weren't even on the way of getting one themselves didn't seem to bother him at all. Which was a good thing, Hermione supposed. Having to deal with his frustration along with her own would have been more than she would have been able to bear. _

"_You're not happy." She jumped at the voice that was suddenly behind her. It wasn't accusatory, or a question. Just a statement. Meeting Harry's calm expression, she couldn't bring herself to deny it. _

"_I want to be," she mumbled, cringing. "It's just… you guys... and we... don't."_

"_I kind of figured that one out," he half-smiled. "Guess being around you for all these years has done something to my people-reading skills."_

_She didn't bother to fake a smile, and he let his fade too. _

"_Ginny hasn't, though," he continued, then hesitated slightly. "And… I think you'd better talk to her, before, you know, she notices something and well… you know," he trailed off. _

"_Yeah, yeah. Of course. I know," Hermione hurried, her voice unnaturally high as panic coursed through her. Talking to Ginny – how could she? She swallowed, hearing herself how it came out much too audible. _

"_Oh, Hermione," Harry sighed, pulling her into his arms as she burst into tears. _

"_I'm sorry," she murmured into his shoulder as she had finally managed to get her sobbing under control. "I didn't mean to…"_

"_It's okay," he half-chuckled at her anxious expression, then frowned. "Does Ron know that you're this upset?"_

"_No," she whispered, keeping her face buried in his shirt. _

"_Why in Merlin's name haven't you told him? Hermione?" he asked her gently, though slightly exasperated. _

"_He's doing all right with it," she explained, her voice shaky and muffled. "I don't want him to start worrying too."_

"_He can take it," Harry said firmly. "As can Ginny."_

"_But I don't want to…" she began, tears rising again. _

_Harry squeezed her shoulder. "Trust me, nothing anyone could do could destroy her happiness right now. Well, someone would have to drop dead, at least." Hermione chuckled involuntarily, sniffing softly. "She needs to know. Plus, she'd kill me if she found out I'd known and not told her."_

"_Okay," she whispered, feeling she wasn't quite up to what she was agreeing to. _

"_Okay? You'll talk to both of them?" _

_She nodded, slowly. This was going to be a long day. _

_xxx_

"_Hermione? Are you okay? What happened? Wait – are you crying?" Ron's concerned questions made her mentally kick Harry for telling her she looked fine before he had gone to fetch her husband. He really wasn't going to give her a chance to get out of this one, was he? _

"_I'm fine. Really. Or, well, kind of." She took a deep breath and dived into it, forcing herself to keep talking as she bit back the lump that threatened to rise in her throat. By the time she had finished, Ron was staring at her open-mouthed._

"_Why? Why didn't you tell me?" he asked after a beat, with something like hurt in his voice. _

"_I… I didn't want to worry anyone else. And – and if I didn't talk about it, it felt like maybe it wasn't too big of a deal. Because – well, it's just me being silly, isn't it? It'll probably all be fine," she said, the trembling in her voice betraying that she didn't believe this at all herself. _

"_Yeah, it probably will," Ron agreed gently. And then he touched her. That did it. Swallowing hard didn't do the trick anymore and she found herself being enveloped by a pair of even more familiar arms, holding her tightly as she shook. This time, she was quicker to recover, and he continued, after bending down to kiss her forehead softly. "But it's not okay right now, is it? And I can't help you if I don't know that I'm supposed to. I probably should just know that, but sometimes I'm a bit slow, and then you have to give me some kind of clue, okay?" _

"_Yeah," she whispered. "I'm sorry for not telling you," she added, snuggling against his chest. _

"_I'm sorry for not being a better mind reader," he replied, stroking her wet cheek._

_xxx_

"_Harry said that we needed to talk?" Ginny inquired, frowning as she came to meet the already pretty exhausted Hermione in the garden. "Hermione, what's going on? Have you been crying?"_

"_Yes," she admitted bluntly, knowing there was no turning back, and not having any energy left to drag this out. "I'm sorry, I really am, and I wish I was better at handling this, but I'm just… not. I am happy for you guys, of course I am, it's just that…" Her eyes were welling and she had to use force to keep her voice level as she watched comprehension dawning on Ginny's face. _

_Before she knew it, they were hugging tightly and Ginny was apologizing in her hair. "I'm so sorry – I never thought – and I've been so insensitive!"_

"_It's okay," Hermione hurried to assure her, this time actually managing to keep the tears at bay. "Really, it is. It's just… I want this, too," she sighed, gesturing to Ginny's still expanded belly. _

"_You should have told me," Ginny stated firmly. "It wouldn't have ruined anything," she said, before Hermione could protest. "Never think that you can't tell me stuff, okay?"_

_She nodded, starting to give into that when three people were telling her the same thing, they might have a point. Maybe. _

_Ginny hesitated. "I… I don't know if this will just make it harder for you, and if it does, you have every right to say no. But we, Harry and I, we wanted you to be James's Godmother." Hermione gasped. "We could choose someone else, of course, if you're not… if it's too…" Ginny trailed off, looking uncertain._

"_No," Hermione sniffled, feeling her voice abandoning her, and finding that she didn't really care. "I'd love to be. I… I just wish I could know for sure that I… that I'll be able to return the favour."_

xxx

"It did get better once they all knew," Hermione says to the still doubtful Lucy as she finishes her story. "I thought for sure that it wouldn't, but it really was a whole lot easier to deal with all the waiting and disappointment when your Uncle Ron was there too. He was amazing, never losing hope and never letting me lose hope either. And, once Aunt Ginny knew, she could be a bit less… flaunting with her happiness, and well, we both knew where we had each other. She understood if I, on some particularly bad days, wasn't able to be around James."

"But you did get pregnant. And both at the same time, then," Lucy points out.

"We were lucky. In the end, Ginny and I were still ridiculously well-timed with two of our kids. But I didn't know that then. Just like you don't know that that won't happen to you and Roxanne."

"With my luck, she'll probably get pregnant again before I even get my first," Lucy mutters, then continues, getting slightly hysterical. "What if I'll never get a baby, though? What if it just _never_ happens?"

"In all probability, you will. Two years aren't that much. It really does take different time for different people. But," she goes on, as Lucy shows every sign of interrupting, "if you don't, there are other options. You'll get your baby, somehow."

"Isn't there any way I could, you know, speed up the process?" she asks, almost pleading.

"I'm sorry, dear," Hermione says, sympathetically putting her hand on Lucy's. "You just have to be patient."

"But I'm not!" she exclaims, putting her head in her hands.

"I know," Hermione sighs, rubbing circles on her niece's back. "I know."

xxx

Telling Roxanne wasn't easy. The hurt look in her eyes when she realized that her best friend had been miserable for such a long time and hadn't come to her about it made Lucy feel horrible. But any accusations remained unsaid when Lucy's eyes welled up and she started mumbling sniffled explanations about how Roxanne had been so happy that she just didn't want to ruin it. Now, afterwards, it does feel better to have spoken about it aloud. Aunt Hermione had, as always, been right.

Now, it's just Tim left to deal with. Taking a deep breath, Lucy steadies herself and opens the door.

The second she enters, she is greeted by his concerned face. "Are you okay? Where did you go? Are you… are you still mad at me? Because I'm really sorry – I didn't realize. I've been an idiot and I should have known and I shouldn't have said that, and you have every right to hate me right now and…"

"Tim, breathe," Lucy interrupts him, putting her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. "_I'm _sorry for being such a bitch to you. Not just this morning, but for the last year, more or less. Honestly, I can't see how you've put up with me!"

"Well, you're okay. I kind of like having you around," he grins sheepishly. "Seriously, _are_ you okay, though? I didn't want to… well, upset you any worse, so I didn't come up earlier, but I thought maybe your Aunt Hermione would get it a little better?"

"You were right," Lucy smiles, leaning in to peck his lips. "Thanks for bringing her here."

"You're welcome," he sighs with relief, then moves to deepen the kiss, pulling her body firmly against his own.

"You – ready to – try again?" she breathes between kisses.

"You bet," he groans, sweeping her up and carrying her towards the bedroom, never once letting their lips part.

xxx

_Three weeks later_

"It's positive." She stares at the test, not daring to believe her eyes.

"Are you sure?" Tim asks anxiously.

She blinks, wondering herself. But it's still there. "Y-yes. I'm sure. Come look yourself."

He stares at it, his mouth falling open. "Blimey, you're right. It is. Which means that…"

"… I'm pregnant," she finishes blankly. "I… I'm pregnant! I'm actually, finally, _pregnant_!" she exclaims with a shaky laugh.

"We're going to have a baby," he grins dazedly. She realizes the magnitude of his words and squeals.

From then on, it's chaos – laughter mixing with tears, his hands grabbing hers, her lips pressing against his, such things as breathing forgotten. She jumps, and he jumps with her, his grin almost as wide as hers.

She can't believe this. She is actually – finally – pregnant.

**A/N: **I wasn't too sure about how it'd be to let such a small character as Lucy take this much space in here, so please let me know how you liked it, and if you'd like me to focus on "bigger" characters in the future or if this worked.


	7. To Romania

**A/N:** For the first time, this isn't a request. It was just an idea I had planned to do for a while, since I referred to the event of Charlie's going to Romania after graduation and Bill helping him persuade Molly to let him go in "Things". Suddenly, last night it was writing itself. Hope you'll like it! (And Steph, sorry, this isn't Dean and Seamus, but I figured some Bill and Charlie and Weasleys might work okay as a replacement. Am I right?)

_**To Romania**_

"I need to talk to you."

The urgent tone in his brother's voice was definitely worrying, Bill decided, looking up from his paper to find Charlie staring almost anxiously, yet very determinedly, down at him from beside his bed.

"Okay," Bill replied cautiously, sitting up with a frown. This couldn't be good.

"Okay," Charlie repeated, taking a deep breath. "You know how mum thinks I've got no plans for what I'll do now I'm out of Hogwarts?"

Bill chuckled. "_Anyone_ who has been in her vicinity over the last few weeks would have been deaf to miss _that_ – she's always going on about how irresponsible you're being."

"Well, yeah. I've kind of let her think that. Believe it or not, it's been easier," Charlie explained with a half-grin.

Bill groaned. "God, Charlie, what's that supposed to mean? What the hell _are _you planning to do? Making a fortune by collecting dragon dung?"

"No, not exactly," Charlie said slowly, but with a mysterious glint in his eyes.

"Don't tell me it has _anything _to do with dragon dung, _please_," begged his brother with wide eyes.

"No, no, you know I got over _that _idea like three years ago," Charlie waved his brother's worry away impatiently. "But it does include dragons. In Romania," he blurted out, regarding Bill intently for a reaction.

"Hold on a second," Bill started. "You're moving to Romania?"

"Kind of," Charlie admitted.

"To work with dragons?" Bill questioned, the disbelief in his voice increasing.

"Yeah," said Charlie, a grin spreading across his face at the mere idea. "It'll be pretty awesome. You know Alex – he's got some connections there and well, there's a job ready for me if I want it. He's going too."

"You're serious about this, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I am. If it wasn't for mum, I'd've been there already, the moment I got out of school. Or, preferably, even before that – but, well… That might not have been too popular here, I figured," Charlie finished, gesturing to the walls of The Burrow.

"No, it certainly wouldn't," Bill agreed, still trying to process this information. "I doubt it even will be now, you know. Mum won't be too keen on the idea of you 'going out of your way to make sure your life is _never_ just safe and stable'", he laughed, mimicking his mother's words from dinner the previous night.

"I reckoned she might not," Charlie said, rolling his eyes. "Which is why I need _you_ to persuade her."

"You're kidding," Bill said blankly, but knowing all too well that he wasn't. The slightly sheepish expression on his brother's face proved that. Charlie hated asking anyone for anything. Bill was the only one he'd ever even consider, and that was only rarely too. "So that's why you told me first?" he asked, playing offended, trying to lighten the mood. "Not because you wanted me to know or something, no, you were just trying to use me shamelessly, is that it?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Charlie grinned. "So, you'll do it?" he added, the seriousness in his eyes back, and Bill sighed.

"I'll try. Can't make any promises, though."

"Oh, come on, she'll do _anything_ you ask, you know that. Me, on the other hand…" Charlie trailed off, grudgingly.

Bill refrained from pointing out that it had a bit to do with the manner of asking, and just said, "Well, let's do this tonight then."

"As soon as possible," Charlie nodded, the gratefulness in his eyes not escaping Bill's notice, even if he knew he wasn't supposed to be seeing it.

xxx

Bill understood. Of course he did. Hadn't he, too, been desperate to get away after graduation? See the world. _Do_ something (like Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon had always been _doing_ something). Wasn't he still, no matter how much he loved his family, itching to get back to Egypt after the summer holidays to his friends, his life, and his semi-serious girlfriend? Bill understood, all right.

But that didn't mean he had to like it. Charlie was his little brother. Charlie wasn't supposed to be moving out of the bloody country, to work with the most dangerous creatures possible. Charlie was supposed to be there. Preferably at home, at The Burrow, but at least in England. Bill was, of course, very aware that he was being irrational. _He_ wasn't at home for most of the year, so he couldn't ask Charlie to be. But this just didn't feel right. Charlie was supposed to be there when he came home to visit. If he wasn't – well, Bill didn't even want to think about what this meant for how rarely they would be seeing each other.

He had promised, though. He had to talk his mother around after Charlie had, in all probability, failed in getting her approval. He had to really try, resisting the temptation of letting her lock Charlie up here forever. That'd be selfish. It'd be wrong. Bill knew that Charlie needed this. And he understood, even if he didn't like it. So he'd try. What were big brothers for?

xxx

It was going badly. Quite horribly, actually. Charlie had been keeping calm, at first, slowly gliding into the topic at the kitchen table after all the kids had left, starting by dropping a few hints about how he actually had plans for his future. That was good, letting their mother get some positive vibes. But then it had all gone downhill. By the time dragons got into the mix, she was looking ready to boil over. When the words "moving to Romania" were uttered, she had, as expected, actually done it. Boiled over, that was. Her thin lips had stopped pressing themselves together in silence, and she was suddenly shouting, red-faced, at the just as furious-looking Charlie (Bill assumed he was the only one who made out the dejectedness beneath, since his brother really was doing a remarkable job concealing it with heated anger).

Now, at his mother's very clear hinting that she didn't trust Charlie as much as she had trusted Bill at the same age (following Charlie's outburst of "You let Bill leave for bloody Egypt when he was only just out of Hogwarts, isn't that the same?"), Charlie had apparently had too much. He stormed off, and Bill was left with his so far quiet father by the kitchen sink and his fuming mother at the table. Sighing, he put his hand on hers.

"Mum," he tried, but she snapped up directly, not letting him finish.

"No! It's not the same, you know it isn't. He's not ready to be going off like that, he's just not_._ It was different with you, you had planned it for months before you went to Egypt. And I wasn't very fond of that either, mind you, but – well, it was different!" she declared, gesticulating wildly to prove her point.

"It's not that different," Bill protested calmly. "He's known about this for months, too."

Flinching, he half-listened to her ranting about how irresponsible it was of that boy not to tell them anything, and then just spring this at them out of the blue.

"Mum!" he interrupted her sharply after several minutes. "Can't you see _why_ he didn't want to tell you?" he asked, almost amused.

"No, I most certainly can't," she huffed. "If he would have just told us in time…"

"You still would've hated the idea of him moving to Romania to work with dragons," Bill finished for her.

"Well – of course I would! It's insane, he's way too young and…"

"Mum. I know that you don't like this, but do you really think that you'll be able to do anything about it if Charlie's got his mind set on this?" Bill tried.

"I'm his mother, of course I can – I can lock him in his room, I can…" she started determinedly.

"No, you can't," Bill told her firmly. "But if you try, he might not come home even to visit. You know how stubborn he can be. If he has to take off in the middle of the night, he will. But then, chances are he'll be too proud to turn up here for a pretty long time. And you don't want that, do you?"

"Of course not," she spat, her certainty starting to waver slightly, "but…"

"I think Bill is right, dear." For the first time, Arthur spoke up. Bill had almost forgotten that his father was present, but now watched gratefully as he put his hands on his wife's shoulders and continued quietly. "There's no stopping Charlie from doing this, Molly. He is of age, and we do want him home for holidays, at least. And he _is_ right, it wouldn't be fair of us to let Bill go at that age and refusing Charlie the same opportunity."

"But… he's so… and I…" Molly spluttered, her lower lip now starting to tremble before she turned abruptly and buried her face in her husband's chest.

"Thanks, dad," Bill mouthed, before tactfully stepping out of the room, leaving his father to comfort his now violently shaking wife.

Charlie was waiting right outside the kitchen door, and, having abandoned all pretence of not being nervous, spoke the moment Bill appeared. "What's going on? Did you do it? Will she let me go?"

Bill nodded, his small grin growing as he watched his brother's expression of relief and pure happiness.

"Yes!" he groaned, punching the air in triumph. "Thanks, man, really – I couldn't have done it without you," he added, patting his older brother on the back.

"No, you really couldn't. That you've got right," Bill agreed tiredly, but couldn't help laughing at his brother's wild victory dance, and for the moment silencing the parts of his brain wishing he wouldn't have done such a good job persuading their mother into this.

xxx

This should have been simple. It wasn't as if Charlie wasn't ever going to come back. But, still, it was a goodbye. And they did not know when they would be seeing him again. _That_ had never happened before. No matter how long Bill had been apart from his brother, he had always known exactly when he next would be seeing him. But this time, Charlie could make no promises about getting time off even for Christmas. (Their mother had glared at her son very sharply when he had informed her of this, warning him that if he knew what was best for him, he'd make sure to get home. Charlie hadn't protested, but he had, later, admitted to Bill alone that he honestly was doubtful that he, as a newcomer, would get the privilege of a holiday at the busiest time of the year.)

Now, however, it was goodbye time, and Bill knew he couldn't allow himself too much brooding. He'd have to make sure that this departure came about as smoothly as possible. Charlie needed that. Despite his eagerness to get away, Bill had seen his strained grin the previous night, and knew his brother wasn't taking this as lightly as he wanted them all to believe.

The twins wouldn't be any trouble, though, Bill was sure. As Charlie turned to them, they just grinned brightly at him.

"You'll have to tell us all about the dragons, Charlie!" said Fred excitedly.

"Yeah, everything!" George agreed, just as enthusiastically. "By the way, why don't we come with you and see for ourselves?" he mused, turning to his twin.

"Oh, let's do that," Fred decided happily. "It'd be loads more fun _and_ useful than school."

"_Boys_, you're only thirteen, you won't even _think _about not finishing your educations!" Molly warned threateningly.

"Sorry, boys," Arthur shrugged at their disappointed faces. "Perhaps when you're older. For now, though, school it is."

Bill almost felt sorry for them as they shared a sulky gaze.

"Fine," Fred said shortly, not looking at his mother. "You still have to write to us, though," he added to Charlie.

"I will," Charlie chortled, ruffling their hairs quickly. "And I'll make sure to save you some spots for when you're old enough, okay?"

Both twins nodded eagerly, as Charlie switched his attention to his youngest brother.

"You have to tell me too – about the dragons, I mean," Ron began quietly. Then he hesitated, his eyes widening. "Are you _really_ going to work with _real_ dragons?" he asked, sounding awestruck.

"Indeed, I am," Charlie said. Bill grinned, seeing the obvious swelling pride in him at his younger brother's admiration.

"Wow…" Ron muttered. "That's _really _cool."

"I promise I'll tell you all about it," Charlie assured him with a pat on the back.

Percy was next, smiling broadly at his older brother. "You really are going to work with dragons," he said with a hint of amusement, referring to an old argument when he in the heat of the moment had suggested that Charlie was no good for any other, more refined occupation than handling dragons. Charlie had afterwards, most unwillingly, admitted to being grateful to Percy for planting the idea in his head, despite the manner in which it had been done.

"Looks like it," Charlie replied with a shrug. "And I'll most definitely blame the person who suggested it to me if it doesn't work out."

"I consider myself warned," Percy chuckled. "But I don't think I'll have much to worry about."

"From you, I'm not sure if I'm to take that as an insult or a compliment," Charlie frowned, but with a joking glint in his eye. "So – looks like you're the head of the family at school now, Perce. How does that feel?" he changed the subject.

"I think I'll manage," Percy answered, suddenly seeming to grow a few inches, and Bill was pretty sure he knew what was on his younger brother's mind – a certain Prefect's badge that had arrived only a few days earlier. Bill and Charlie shared a look, but both knew better than to say anything. "Well, have a good time then," Percy said, his attention back to his brother.

"You too, Perce," Charlie said, pulling his brother in for a brief hug.

"Let me know if the dragons do work out, okay?" Percy asked, more seriously than before.

"Sure," Charlie assured him, before turning to pick up his little sister, who, unexpectedly, was glaring at him harshly.

"Hey?" Charlie asked in surprised concern. "What's up, Gin?"

"You're leaving," she stated simply, lowering her eyebrows at him darkly. "You were supposed to be here now, at least in the _country_. Everybody just leaves," she finished with an accusing gaze at Ron.

On the spot, Bill decided that he'd have to take a few more weeks off work in September, making sure his little sister wasn't taking her abandoned state too hard – he was afraid his parents would not be sufficient comfort about that.

This lapse of concentration, though, prevented Bill from stepping in at the present, and before anyone could stop her, Ginny had jumped down from Charlie's arms and stormed up the stairs. Mentally kicking himself, Bill caught the hurt expression on Charlie's face before he put his unfazed mask back on for his father.

"Have a good time, son," Arthur said softly.

"I will definitely try my best," Charlie grinned half-heartedly.

"I'm sure you will," Arthur smiled back. "Just remember to be careful as well. As I am sure you are aware, dragons are no playmates."

"I know, dad," Charlie replied, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, yes. Well, goodbye then," Arthur said, pulling his son into a short embrace. "And do make sure to come home for Christmas, or your mother will have to come over there to drag you home herself – and that won't be pretty," he warned.

"I'll do my best," Charlie repeated, and Bill was sure he was the only one who caught the small falter in his brother's smile at the knowledge of whose goodbye was left.

Before Charlie had even fully let go of his father's gaze (stalling slightly longer than needed), Molly had caught her second oldest son in her suffocating grip. The tears she had been fighting all night were now running freely down her cheeks as she choked, "Oh, Charlie – you must write to us, all the time, okay? And – and stay safe!" Unwillingly letting him go as he sneaked his way out of her arms, nodded at her and waved at the others, she shrieked after him, "And come home for Christmas!"

Bill followed his brother out with the excuse of helping him with his heavy trunk. They walked in silence, Bill pretending not to see the way Charlie was swallowing a bit too often. He suspected strongly that his brother would not be managing many, if any, words right now, so he took the initiative and put his arms around him.

"Watch out for dragon fire, okay?" Bill offered with a faint smile.

Charlie nodded mutely. Bill tightened his hold of his brother as he felt the effort it was taking him to keep his laboured breathing under control. Bill sighed to himself. He had suspected that this wouldn't be easy, but he knew that Ginny's anger and their mother's tears had been more than Charlie could take tonight.

Mercifully, Bill released his brother fairly quickly, putting on a half-grin over the unwanted lump in his throat as Charlie turned and Apparated without another word. Trying not to think too much about the fact that he for the first time in his life had no idea when he would be seeing his favourite brother again.

**A/N: **Please let me know what you think of this, as I've never really wrote Bill and Charlie properly before, and am a bit unsure how I did...

On another note: anyone interested in my writing are very welcome to check out a story that I am writing with MBP. It's in her account, but the link is in my profile. It's called _**Near Fatal Accidents **_and starts with the twins' reactions to Ron getting poisoned.


	8. Reconciliation in the Rain

**A/N: **First of all, I owe you all a huge apology for the wait. I never intended for it to be more than two months… But a combination of less time and lots of inspiration for other stories (one very similar, _**Battle Of Hogwarts: Postscript**_, containing chapters that could've been here, but are in their own story because they're all in the same timeline) has made me neglect this for too long, and for that I'm truly sorry. I can't promise it'll never happen again, but at least for now, here you are!

For anyone who's read my latest _**Things**_-updates, these events will be familiar, just very developed (which was the purpose of this story from the beginning…). To anyone else, I'll give a recap. Molly and Arthur got together in the middle of fifth year. It is now April in their sixth year, and they've been broken up since November. To know more – well, read on!

_**Reconciliation in the Rain **_

With an annoyed gesture, Molly wiped her cheek for what felt like the hundredth time this afternoon. Kicking a rock down the lake in frustration, receiving a disapproving splash from the Giant Squid, she almost let out an actual groan. Merlin, was she getting pathetic. Arthur wasn't even present and he still managed to make her blood boil with frustration, and something more that she was point blank denying. Because her tears had _nothing_ to do with memories of making snow angels with him on their first date at the precise spot she was standing (forever ago when they were only fifth years and everything was so much easier – even if it had only been a year it felt like an eternity, and nowadays nothing was simple), or the fact that she never saw his smile these days, not his real smile. And she was pretty sure it wasn't just when she was around that he didn't show it, because Emma was worried about him and Robert too and even Fabian had talked to her about it – like it was her fault!

It wasn't her fault. It wasn't. And, even if it had been, she wouldn't have cared. Because, obviously, she wasn't still hung up on him, after what –five months? (Godric, had it been _that_ long since she'd seen his eyes glitter at her, felt his soft lips peck hers – how could it have been that long, when she at one point had felt sure she wouldn't last a week?) And she most certainly did not miss him or anything like that.

Just like he couldn't possibly be missing her, despite what everyone said. Besides, what did they know? They weren't there, were they, when she _needed_ him and he didn't come through for her? They weren't there when she was blubbering on like a baby, terrified at the thought that this new, frightening Lord Something-that-you-weren't-supposed-to-say had actually killed someone's four-year old baby. They weren't there when Arthur just stood there, his hands in his pockets (he didn't even have the sensitivity to put them around her, like any sane boyfriend would have done, even if he didn't have a clue what her tears was about), asking her over and over what was the matter. Like she could explain it right then – she could barely speak. She just needed him to wrap his arms around her and hold her for a bit. How difficult would that have been?

If he had cared about her, he would have done that. Hence, Arthur didn't care. At least not enough. And, therefore, Molly was better off without him. And the reason she was out on a walk right now in the bloody April pouring rain, crying – well, it was just the frustration she had been building up lately, seeing as he was _everywhere_. Sure, she could do fine without him, but did she have to be reminded of his existence every goddamn minute of the day? It didn't exactly make the moving on part any easier. Which just wasn't easy at all. (How could it be? For a while there, she had seen a happiness she had never known before, that she had started speculating might last – well, maybe not forever, but it had been a possibility, at least…)

But it was just taking her a bit of time, that was all. She didn't miss him. She didn't need him. She was just being a girl, overly emotional about stupid memories that didn't really mean anything.

xxx

It could have been just like any other night, spent in front of the fire, only half-listening to Robert's and Timmy's discussions about everything from Quidditch to who's girlfriend was the sexiest/most annoying at the moment, once again questioning his decision to do the right thing by staying away from Molly, knowing how badly he had somehow hurt her (the image of her trembling form, being held up by her brothers, her exhaustion that had so obviously come from hours of sobbing her heart out, the concern in her usually _never_ serious brothers' eyes – it all still haunted Arthur's nightmares). He always came up with the same answer, though, no matter how much he wanted not to; he didn't deserve her. If he loved her, which he did, he would stay away, not to risk hurting her again. So he had done that, for the past five months.

But this night wasn't like that, thanks to her brother. After dinner, when Arthur was on his way back to the common room to endure another pointless evening of too little studying and way too much glancing over at Molly, wishing things were different – Gideon was suddenly there, positively glaring at him. Without offering any sort of explanation, he grabbed Arthur's upper arm, went into the nearest classroom and shut the door behind the two of them. Swallowing, Arthur waited a few moment, in no doubt that he was about to receive a lecture about how he was no good for Molly and how dare he still even _look_ at her after what he did. From the expression Gideon wore, Arthur wouldn't have been surprised if he had gone all out and punched him in the face. Frankly, he wouldn't have blamed him. If anyone else had done something – anything – to Molly, he would've liked to have beaten them up so badly that they could never walk again.

But, as Gideon neither hit him nor started to speak, Arthur took his chances. (After all, if he was given a choice, he would rather not have his nose broken. Even if he knew Madame Pomfrey could fix it up in a second, he remembered the excruciating pain from when his brother had once shot a Bludger at him, only sort of accidentally, and would prefer not to relive it.)

Knowing it was probably a lost cause, he began to apologize. "I – I'm sorry," he muttered to the floor.

"What for?" Gideon demanded, still fiercely, but slightly confused. When Arthur didn't respond at once, he went on impatiently. "Look, Molly can be real slow sometimes, and she's gotten it into her head that she doesn't need you, but the fact is that's bullshit, because she does. And I have no effin' idea what you did, but apparently it's not even bad enough to make her move on, so you better do something about that. Soon."

"But –" Arthur began, hardly believing what he was hearing. _Gideon_ was telling him to get back together with Molly? Well, apparently, he was officially hallucinating. Not having any idea how to continue, how to even try to argue with his own hallucination, he fell silent. The hallucinatory Gideon wasted no time in ploughing on.

"She's out now, on one of her constant stupid walks where she thinks she's gonna forget about you. And if you don't go _talk_ to her –" he warned threateningly, and really, why would he look so menacing if this was only happening in Arthur's wishful fantasy?

"You mean, you think she doesn't – well, hate me?" he questioned quietly, hardly daring to speak those impossible words.

"Of course she doesn't bloody hate you!" Gideon replied, waving his hands in exasperation.

"You're sure?" Arthur asked, still not trusting him to be real. (The frustration in his rolling eyes did seem awfully like the real Gideon, though. If it wasn't real, his subconscious sure was doing a remarkably good job.)

"'Course I'm sure. I know my sis' and –"

But Arthur didn't let him finish. The words were finally starting to sink in. Molly. Not hating him. Missing him. _Needing him?_ Out. Now. Walk. Him doing something about that. _Soon._

"Then – I gotta go," he interrupted, hesitation in his voice as if he didn't quite believe his own words. And then something clicked, and he knew what he needed to do. Turning, he started sprinting, without looking back.

"Well, it's about bloody time!" Gideon called after him, but Arthur barely heard him – he was by then half-way down the corridor, his mind already outside in the rain.

xxx

And then he made her out on the other side of the lake and he started running. And she kicked another rock and stared gloomily at the ground and he was running faster than ever before and suddenly he had almost run straight into her. Feeling his ears staring to redden as the rain mixed with sweat on his forehead, he opened his mouth to speak. But as he met her fierce glare, reminding him very clearly of her brother, no words came to him. Instead, she sighed, asking him in an almost resigned, tired voice _what_ exactly he was doing there.

And still, his mouth wouldn't form words, because she was looking at him, into his eyes, and he realized that she hadn't even spared him as much as a moment of eye contact in months. And her involuntary sharp intake of breath told him that she was just experiencing a similar shock of emotions, that she might even be seeing the same things he was seeing in her eyes; shock, longing, reminiscence, hurt – love?

Somehow, her lack of speech and her dropped mask of anger and stoniness loosened his tongue eventually.

"Molly, I – you have no idea how sorry I am for whatever I did to hurt you. I swear – I _never_ meant to, I would never ever knowingly do anything like that. But I know I did it anyway, but I – I just need you to know that if you'd consider forgiving me, I'd never let myself do it again and I – I'm sorry."

His ears were burning, as well as his neck and his cheeks and if someone would right now offer to dig a hole in the ground, throw him in it and bury him with dirt, he'd take them up on it without hesitation.

She was gaping, and probably looking like a goldfish or something else as silly, but she couldn't close it, because _how_ was she supposed to deal with that after _five months?_ She just couldn't close her mouth or make any kind of sound, but at least she was grateful to the rain that had hid her previous tears and also hopefully succeeded in disguising her present ones.

"I completely understand if you think I'm too late, or if you can't forgive me. I get it, okay. It was just – your brother, he said, and – well, I thought…"

"Fab talked to you again?" she questioned, surprised. Sure, he had been the one to encourage Arthur to act on his feelings for her the first time around, but this time, she thought she had made it pretty clear to him that while he frequently pestered her about the Arthur-situation, he was to leave her ex-boyfriend alone.

"No. Actually, Gideon did."

"_Gid_ talked to you?" Her voice was as disbelieving as her mind. Gideon didn't do that. Fabian was the one who aspired in being a protective brother (despite being younger than her). Gideon made fun of her, wolf-whistled when he saw her and Arthur holding hands for the first time, constantly making inappropriate hints about what she and her boyfriends were supposedly doing. He didn't care – well, he did, obviously. But in his own way. And that was _not_ by telling her ex-boyfriends to take her back.

"Yeah. And he said that you – that you don't – well, that you don't completely hate my guts?" Arthur stuttered, suddenly overcome with horror, as it occurred to him that, knowing Gideon, he could just as easily have been messing around and not meant it at all (even if he was assuming that Gideon wasn't a figure of his imagination).

"I guess he got it right for once then," she spoke softly, taking a step towards him, still something confused in her eyes, along with something more.

"He – he did?" Arthur had by now officially stopped breathing, or noticing anything other than her almost amused eyes in his – was it even still raining?

"Oh, come on, d'you really think I was out here because I was frustrated about homework or something?" Molly asked incredulously, a grin spreading across her face. "I've been _trying_ to get myself to hate you for months."

"Oh." And his almost-smile faded into disappointment and he looked back down.

"Unfortunately, I haven't succeeded," she continued, taking another step forward. "But I – I just need to know – did you mean that before? Do you – do you _want_ me to forgive you?"

"'Course I do," he frowned, looking up.

"But – you never asked," she protested, and her eyes were in his again, and there was a hurt there and he despised himself for once again being the one to put it there.

"I – I'm sorry," he hurriedly mumbled. "But I thought – I'd hurt you, and I didn't want to risk, y'know, doing it again."

"If you had asked, I probably wouldn't have been able to _not_ forgive you," she whispered, and knew immediately that it was true, no matter how much she would have denied it if anyone had asked her a week ago.

"I'm sorry –" he started again, looking so self-reprimanding and troubled that she interrupted him with a smile that she didn't really know where it came from. For Merlin's sake – she was a planning girl, a girl who knew what she was doing and who stuck to her decisions. She wasn't the girl who fell helplessly for the irresistibleness of a boy who looked like he almost wanted to cry for not having done what she wanted him to.

"You know, you could try now. To ask, I mean." Where did this flirty girl come from? This girl who gave into the giddy feeling of his sudden smile and didn't even wait for him to ask, but somehow just threw herself in his arms (how had she already ended up so close to him; by magnetism, or had she been moving without noticing?) and kissed him full on the mouth?

"I have no idea what I'm doing," she breathed into his mouth, but it wasn't panicked or disapproving or regretful, just surprised and – faintly amused?

"I do," he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her body even closer to his.

xxx

Neither of them can quite remember how the hours passed (they only know for sure that they consisted of a _lot_ of make-up snogging and laughing and joking and just lying there in the mud together, relishing in the touch of the other's skins), but suddenly it was almost four in the morning and they were soaked and late and breaking rules.

But even Molly, who would have usually gone into hysterics about crossing any line of "forbidden", only giggled as they hurried towards the front doors, hand in hand.

And as Apollyon Pringle, the caretaker, suddenly appeared behind them, his pleased sneer evident as he made out the form of their running figures, she would have taken the detention with her _boyfriend_. However, knowing of Pringle's near-sightedness from past experience, Arthur unceremoniously shuffled her around the corner, making sure she got out of his range of vision and then stepping back, facing him.

Barely listening to the Fat Lady's reprimanding, Molly followed Arthur's hurried instructions and went inside, then staying put, waiting anxiously for his return.

Just a couple of minutes later, he almost collided with her as he entered the portrait-hole, as she was standing immediately inside, asking worriedly if he'd gotten in much trouble.

"Just a few detentions," he shrugged, putting her wet hair back behind her ear. "It's not like I haven't been there before. Besides, this was more worth it than any one of those times, even that time me and Robert put a jinx on Pringle's glasses to make him see Slytherins lurking around every corner when it was really us, and that got them into _so_ much trouble… But yeah, anyway," he continued as she made an attempt at looking disapproving, "tonight was _definitely _better than that."

"Are you sure you –" she started, still not quite sure whether to love him for being so protective and making sure she got out of trouble, or to feel guilty about him getting detentions and not her, or to take it as if he didn't think she could handle things on her own –

But he interrupted both her sentence and her thoughts by pulling her into the most passionate kiss of the evening. "I'm sure," he grinned, as they both pulled apart for a breath. "Molly Prewett, I'm very, _very_ sure about this."

And, well, how could she protest to that? How could she do anything, really, but let herself melt into his arms and put her lips to his again?

**A/N: **I hope this will at least partly make up for the long wait, and that you haven't forgotten about this story in the meantime. Please let me know if you haven't and are still interested in this. And what you thought of this chapter, of course!


	9. Funerals and Firewhiskey

**A****/N: **I'm sorry I've been too slow, again. This is… something different, I guess. David Macmillan is all mine. I'm pretty sure we never knew anything about Ernie's family, but in my world, David exists and is about four years younger than him. Well, that's it, just read on!

_**Funerals and Firewhiskey**_

Harry Potter didn't cry at his brother's funeral. Dennis thinks that he's supposed to be bothered about that. He should be angry. He ought to be yelling at that so-called Chosen One, the so-called Hero. Because it's his fault. Hadn't Colin fought for him? With him? Wasn't Harry Potter supposed to save them all?

Well, he had, in the end, and everyone worshipped him for it. But he hadn't saved _everyone_. And now he didn't even have the decency to shed a single tear for his brother, who had _died_ for him?

Dennis wants to be angry. He tries to make himself feel it, but it's not there. He knows, really, that it's not Harry Potter's fault. It's not anyone's fault, except You-Know-Who's. His mum keeps repeating that, as she cries. That Colin was a hero, who made his choices and knew what he was doing.

Dennis hates that. Because if Colin had _known_, he wouldn't have done it. He would not have abandoned his little brother, his family. That's not what heroes do.

Yet, deep down, he knows that she is right.

It's not Harry Potter's fault.

(And, even if he didn't actually cry openly, he bit down on his lip fairly hard, and did look like he cared. Not enough to save Colin, but he cared.)

And Colin did know what he was doing.

xxx

_Colin's face was white as chalk. His lips were thin, and looked somehow harder than usual. As if he had to fight his utmost to keep them from trembling. _

"_I – I have to go. Don't – don't tell mum, okay? She won't let me do it, but you get it, don't you?"_

_Dennis nodded fiercely. "I get it. I'll come too."_

_But Colin shook his head, firmly. "You can't. You're not allowed to fight anyway."_

"_Neither are you," he pointed out, sounding too much like a pouting child for his liking. _

_Colin sighed, and checked his watch again. "Listen. _I_ have to go. It's just a couple of months 'til I'm of age. But you've got to stay here. Promise me that."_

"_I can't." Dennis was humiliated to hear his own voice break._

"_Yeah, you can. Someone's got to look after mum, okay? And I need you to do that. You know how hysterical she gets…"_

_But he shook his head, grabbing his brother's sleeve as he turned to go. "No," was all he could manage to get out. _

"_C'mon, Dennis." The smile on his lips couldn't be more forced. "I'll just be a few hours. Okay?"_

_The look in his eyes was too much and Dennis found himself nodding, and without really realizing what he was agreeing to, he had let his brother go. With one last attempt at a grin, Colin was gone. _

xxx

"Dennis." Neville Longbottom's voice is hoarse as he joins him under the tree near the cemetery, his face a lot thinner than the last time Dennis saw it up-close. Neville opens his mouth again, hesitates, then closes it. Probably because of what he sees in Dennis' eyes. Dennis is aware that they are shining out a message of _don't you dare telling me you're sorry for my loss one more time_. He knows that it's probably rude, but he doesn't care. He doesn't owe Neville Longbottom anything. Sure, he's always been nice to him, and to Colin. But he survived, _and_ killed You-Know-Who's snake. He's a hero, who gets to actually live to be appreciated for it. It's not fair. Not while Colin is dead and Dennis is anything but a hero, who couldn't even stop his own brother from walking into what they both knew would be his death. He doesn't owe anything to Neville Longbottom.

He doesn't say that, though. Dennis knows better than to say what he really thinks right now to the people that Colin used to admire. Colin wouldn't want that. So he keeps his mouth shut, and lets Neville give his shoulder a short squeeze before walking away.

Harry Potter and his friends are next. As if there's a line of people who, for their own consciences' sakes, need to see him today. And Dennis lets them, because he knows that they are not here for him, but for Colin. It's not his place to tell them off, or choose where the line goes for too much sympathy from people who have _no idea_ (well, Potter's friend and girlfriend might have some idea – he knows that they lost a brother too).

Hermione Granger walks first, her eyes red but weary as they step in under his tree. As if she at least suspects how much he hates this. But, then again, probably not. If she did, she would take her ashen-faced boyfriend, drag him as far away as possible and simply _leave him alone_, wouldn't she? And she doesn't. She just stands there, looking into him, while her boyfriend's eyes flicker between the tree and the ground, her and Harry Potter – anywhere but at Dennis. (He supposes he should be grateful, but he's not. Ron Weasley survived too. Even if he lost a brother.)

Once they've been standing around in silence for a couple of moments, Harry Potter stops hovering behind Hermione and takes a step forward, still clutching his own girlfriend's hand.

"I'm sorry, Dennis," he rasps with a voice that sounds like it hasn't slept for three days. "I wish I could've done – anything."

He nods shortly in response, closing his eyes for a second against the burning emotions. "Okay," he whispers lamely, swallowing, cursing his voice for sounding so weak, so much like the child he is not anymore and never will be again.

Ginny Weasley meets his eyes, true understanding flickering in there for a second, but the next she has looked away again, nervously putting her hair behind her ear.

It suddenly strikes him that, even if these are war heroes, famous names, admirable survivors – right now, they're afraid of him. Even Harry Potter. Somehow, that makes him feel a little bit stronger.

Harry Potter doesn't know what to say to him, or how to look at him.

It's the girls who notice the finality in his nod and lead their boyfriends away. Dennis has to admit he is grateful this time. Anymore of their so-called sympathy and he might not have been able to keep playing the part of broken little kid. (Because that is _not_ what he is, not anymore. He'll never let himself become that. If anything, he's a broken man. Angry and bitter, not scared or weak. That's what everyone thinks, but they're wrong. He's done with that now.)

xxx

"_It's Ernie." There was stoniness in his father's face, true fear in his voice. His mother gasped and burst into tears. Only he managed to ask._

"_Wh-what happened?" He couldn't ask if he was alive, because he had to be, even if something in his father's voice had made that doubtable. _

_But his father shook his head. "I don't know. He's in St. Mungo's, now. We should go."_

_When David made out his brother's unconscious, pale form in the hospital bed, he screamed. And he vowed to keep on screaming, until he woke up. _

_He did wake up. Twenty-nine hours later. _

"_It's okay now, right? He'll be okay, right, Dad?" _

_But there was something in his father's eyes that wiped the relieved smile right off his face. And his mother just kept sobbing into her hands. Even if they didn't say it, he knew. _

_He didn't believe it. Not until he was allowed to see him, five hours after that. Because that was not his brother. Those eyes that just wouldn't stay open. That voice, barely audible, strained in pain. That voice wasn't Ernie's. That voice called him David, and told him thanks for doing like he had been told and going home when the battle started. Ernie had _never_ called him David. _

xxx

He's not sure what he's doing here, at the funeral of some Hogwarts student he's never even spoken to. But his mum insists that they should go to as many of them as they can manage. "To pay their respects." What a joke.

If anything, it's disrespectful to be here, at someone's funeral, among that someone's family and friends, crying your eyes out because your own son is in the hospital and hasn't woken up today, even if the Healers says this is a good thing and that he needs his sleep. Bullshit, that's what it all is.

Thankfully, this service wasn't very long. He only had to listen to a couple of teary speeches, praising the dead guy as a true hero, a true Gryffindor (as if Hufflepuffs couldn't be brave too, David thought, closing his fists in his pockets). Like anyone cared.

Of course, Harry Potter was there. He was everywhere, at every damn funeral. Always looking just solemn enough, but never crying. He knew, of course, that people were watching him, and that everyone would want him on their son's funeral, as a mark of their heroism, their importance. A load of bullshit, wasn't it? Like Harry Potter cared about any of these people. He knew Ernie. Ernie had always praised him and considered him a friend. But had the great Harry Potter been to see him in the hospital? Not once. Too busy with all the funerals, supposedly. You'd think he'd bother more about the people that were actually still alive than his damn status as a "good guy who never missed a fucking funeral".

Leaving his hysterical mother to his father to deal with (you'd wonder why she kept coming to these bloody death reminders if not for some sadistic need to torture herself, _and_ those around her), David walks off. They don't even notice.

Giving an annoyed sigh about the idiocy of the world, David spots a boy he recognizes. A live boy, for once, that he knows from the year above him at Hogwarts. A Gryffindor, he thinks, but what's his name…? Well, who cares, anyway. At least this one isn't crying hysterically or wearing that horrible, respectfully sad expression. That expression that isn't sad, just sorry. And who in the world has any use of that?

For a moment, this boy looks like he's thinking the exact same thing. He wears that much more bearable expression of "sorry can kiss my ass", and almost unconsciously, David walks up to him as he stands, leaning against a tree.

"Hey," he says. The other boy almost jumps at his voice, looks surprised for a moment, then narrows his eyes.

"What do you _want_?" he asks, the exhaustion creeping out with the fury, but David pretends not to hear that.

"Nothin', really," he shrugs, pondering if he ought to leave again (but _where_?).

"You're Dave, right? Dave Macmillan?" For a moment, he's surprised that this boy knows his name. Then, the stab hits him and he shakes his head more fiercely than he means to.

"David. _David_ Macmillan."

"Oh. Sorry." The Gryffindor watches him curiously, but doesn't ask. Even if something in his eyes tells David that he has not conceded to remembering incorrectly.

"And you're…?" he then asks, not bothering that he might be considered impolite not to remember. A change of subject is needed, and what does it matter, really?

"Dennis Creevey." David's not sure why, but a coldness shoots down his spine at that name. Creevey… Wasn't that the name…?

The Creevey boy frowns at his reaction. "You knew my – my brother?"

David shakes his head slowly, cursing himself inwardly for managing to end up in a conversation with the brother to the person whose funeral he's just attended. Just his luck, isn't it?

"What're you doing here then? Not come to pay your damn respects to _me_, to tell me that you're _so_ sorry, not bothering to consider that I might not be fucking interested in if you're bloody sorry or not?"

Something about the way he pronounces them tells David that Dennis has not sworn much in his life. Before this, that is.

"No," he responds simply after a beat. "I didn't even know your brother. My mum forced me here. She just wants an excuse to cry a bit, cause my brother's in the hospital and even though no one will say it, we know he's not gonna make it. But instead of facing that, she goes to other people's funerals and weeps her eyes out. And I – I don't know what else to –" He stops short, clearing his throat, wondering in frustration what has caused him to reveal so much about his life to a perfect stranger. He's never even said it out loud before. That Ernie might – _will _with all probability – die.

He's about to turn away. He should walk away right now from this boy who for some reason makes him spill his secrets in a way that he just can't. But something about the way their eyes meet makes his feet unwilling to obey.

"I wasn't there, that night." Dennis's voice is small, but yet somehow defiant. As if he's daring David (or more like the world) to accuse him for this, blame him for letting his brother die and not being there to prevent it, or at least fight alongside him.

Suddenly, a feeling like compassion overcomes him and the words are out of his mouth without his full consent. "Neither was I. I went home. Like they told me to. Like he -"

His voice doesn't _break_, per say, it just sort of fades away. Besides, it's not like he would have wanted to share that particular conversation with anyone anyway, the one where he was childish enough to tear up like a bloody baby, begging his brother to come home with him, not even considering to stay himself (because how was he supposed to be of any use against Death Eaters and Voldemort, when he was no more than fourteen years old?). The one where Ernie pulled him in for a short hug, ruffled his hair and then told him to go, and that he would follow as soon as it was over, but that this was something he had to do. No, _no_ _one_ will ever hear about that.

Thankfully, Dennis picks up where he left off. "I stayed home. He wasn't allowed to go, but he did anyway. I let him." His voice doesn't break. It's empty instead, hollow. David's not sure which one he prefers, which one he should try for.

"What're you doing now?" he asks, a sudden idea hitting him.

Dennis eyes him suspiciously, then raises an eyebrow as he realizes that he's serious.

"Wanna try some Firewhiskey? I hear the Hog's Head not that picky with who they serve."

For a moment, Dennis looks like he's hesitating, but then he nods, something like determination in his eyes, but something at least similar to a smile playing on his lips. "Sure. Let's go."

**A/N: **So… what did you think?


	10. Three of the Foursome

**A/N: **I know I'm a bit slower than I said with this, but it's here now. Missing moment from my last Padma chapter, the last of sixth year, but can be read independently. It's Dumbledore's funeral through Terry Boot's POV.

_**Three of the Foursome**_

She should be here. That single thought is all Terry can focus on (because it's true, and because if he doesn't, he'd have to focus on the even worse facts that he's attending a bloody funeral today, and that Anthony looks like he hasn't closed his eyes all night, and that he's not sure if his school might be closing now since their Headmaster is dead and what the _hell_ is going to happen with the world without Dumbledore, the only one You-Know-Who supposedly ever feared?).

So, Terry focuses on the fact that Padma has already been taken home by her parents, the morning after _it_ happened. And how much that sucks. Because they need her. Of course, Terry always needs her, but more than ever today.

They are boys. They are close friends, yes, and they've seen each other in pretty shitty states. But they're boys. They're not good at the touchy-feely crap that girls do with each other, comforting and being there for each other and whatever it is that they do. They're here, all three of them, and they're together. But they're boys. They don't talk about it. Not really. Now that Terry thinks about it, neither of them has mentioned Dumbledore's name since it happened. Mostly, they've kept the conversation to safe subjects, like Quidditch. Or the current game of Gobstones they've been playing. More than that, they've not talked at all. There's not much to say, when you're not mentioning the one thing on all of their minds.

They're boys and they're not talking about it and they don't know how to handle a day like this. They need Padma. Even before he started going out with her, she was a vital part of their dynamic. She has always been the one who keeps them floating in situations when the boys don't know how to act. She was always the one who took the initiative and hugged whoever needed it, or admitted to being afraid of stuff, so that the others could talk about it without actually having to use the words that they were scared shitless too.

They need Padma. She'd talk about it. She always needs to talk about everything, reason it through. Terry does too, with the big stuff, like this. He's pretty sure they all do. They are Ravenclaws, after all. But someone has to start, and she's not here and they don't know how to do that without her.

They're in their dormitory, waiting. No point of going down to the common room when it's not to meet up with Padma, or Cho for that matter, but she's gone home too. (Terry wouldn't say it to Michael, who obviously misses her like hell, but Terry's actually glad. He's sure her hysterical presence would have done more damage than good. That's what's so good about Padma. She's a girl, who talks about stuff and admits to being worried, but she doesn't get as insanely frantic as Cho does. He would personally never be able to deal with _that_ on a daily basis. Frankly, he admires Michael for his patience – again, though, he keeps this to himself.)

Lisa and Mandy have gone too. Not that they would have come out of their dormitory bubble much otherwise, he's sure. Even Mandy, who used to be so outgoing and _fun_ has become more isolated with all this war stuff going on. She's scared, obviously, but who the hell isn't? Terry still doesn't think it makes anything better to just shut off from the world and not do anything about it. That being said, he seriously doubts that either of those two girls will return after the summer (if there even is a Hogwarts to return to by then, that is).

Really, he's not sure why he stays himself. He didn't know Dumbledore. It sucks that he died, yes, but what difference does it make that he's here, paying his respects or whatever? None, really. But it feels like the right thing to do, anyway. Plus, Michael and Anthony never even mentioned leaving as an option. They've chosen a side. They were in Dumbledore's Army. They stay. They'll fight (even if the thought of that still seems like an insane very, very abstract idea that you toy with in class to make the work seem not quite so pointless).

It's Michael who speaks up. It almost always is. "So, this sucks," he states, blowing out a bit of air into the silence. His tone is nowhere near its usual lightness.

Anthony shakes himself, obviously having been lost deep in his thoughts. He simply nods. Terry looks away, not sure if Anthony's lack of words comes from lack of trust in his own voice.

"Yep," Terry agrees after a beat that's just a little too long. "That it does."

"I've never been to one of these," Michael continues, somewhat bluntly, his gaze out the window. Apparently, he's decided it's time for them to talk about it. Terry's not really sure whether to feel relieved or not. Even if he hated the pressing silence, this might be more risky.

"Just my great grandfather's." Terry is careful to keep his voice level and untouched. He doesn't even remember it. He's as lost as Michael as to how this is going to go down, how he's supposed to act, and how he might react. "Ages ago. I was 'bout five, I think."

Automatically, they turn to Anthony, who still hasn't opened his mouth. He doesn't look at them, but obviously senses their questioning gazes. His voice oddly harsh, he speaks. "I have. My grandma's. I was ten and it was – " he trails off, shaking his head as though to gather himself. "It wasn't fun."

Neither of them knows how to respond to this. It's too obvious that this funeral thing is going to be all the more horrible for Anthony, since it'll bring back memories of his dead grandmother. But Padma's not here, to say something, or simply take his hand. She's the one who does that stuff. Michael and Terry, they leave Anthony's words ringing in the air, the pain of them cutting into their own hearts, but they say nothing.

Until, finally. "We'd better get going." It's Anthony. His face set, he stands up, looking almost defiant in his determination to do this, to get through this.

Even if it's still kind of early, neither of them protests. They simply nod, following him out the door. They don't speak, all the way down to the grounds. They walk together, but they don't speak.

They don't speak while they sit there in the too bright sunlight, too early, watching the rest of the students fill up the chairs, trying not to notice the wetness on some girls' cheeks, or the tenseness in the boys (Harry in particular looks like he's walking to the bloody gallows or something – Terry would point this out to the others, if it had been funny, at all, but it's not, and he stays silent). He doesn't comment when he sees Lovegood and Neville looking like an old married couple with her helping him into his seat (this _would _be funny if the circumstances weren't what they are and if it wasn't for the fact that Neville was injured in some battle that they should've helped with, but didn't). He definitely doesn't snigger when he hears Hagrid blow his nose with the noise of a bloody trumpet. It's not funny at all, and opening his mouth right then, or even looking at the rigid form of Anthony to his left, would be dangerous.

He's not sure if he wishes Padma was here, so that he'd have her hand to hold, her touches to make him feel less alone with all this. Or if, maybe, her tears would have just made keeping himself detached even harder.

He's not alone, but he can't look at them. The second it's over, Anthony rises, starting to walk briskly towards the castle. Sharing a short worried glance, Michael and Terry follow him at a small distance, still not saying a word.

When they sit alone in a compartment at the unusually empty Hogwarts Express, after Anthony has spent a bit too long locked in a bathroom, they play Gobstones. At first, they do it in silence. Slowly, they start to comment the game, mocking the others' tactics, gloating when they win. Both Terry and Michael breathe out in relief when Anthony actually smirks as they let him beat them just so smoothly that he doesn't notice.

They don't talk about it. But they're there, and they're together.


End file.
